


It's All Too Much

by lovely_rita



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: And I just want to wrap Paul in a blanket and keep him safe, And Lots of It, Angst, Anxiety, Because John is so sweet, But what are you expecting really, Crying, Depression, Established Relationship, First Kiss, Fluff, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Kidnapping, Lots of it, M/M, Nightmares, Panic Attacks, Past Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Swearing, Violence, Well its not their first ever but you'll understand, You'll have to read to understand I guess, but again not really, john is trying his best
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-15
Updated: 2021-01-10
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:21:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 9
Words: 30,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23665306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovely_rita/pseuds/lovely_rita
Summary: "Paul,” he says again, if only for himself. It seems like his voice is too loud, too heavy, and it sinks into the room like a wrecked ship no one can save. It doesn’t even echo, just lies flat, awaiting an answer that won’t come.He walks back out of the room, the sound of liquid dripping from the bed deadening as he shuts the door. He moves a little way forward through the house, following the trail of blood pasted on the floor to try and see if he can find even a glimpse of how any of this happened.And that’s when he sees the back door wide open.
Relationships: John Lennon/Paul McCartney
Comments: 134
Kudos: 238





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> Here we go, guys! A lot of you have bee looking forward to this fic so I'm glad to be finally posting it!  
> PLEASE READ THE TAGS!!! I can't express enough how important that is, because I don't want anyone to be triggered. This fic will get quite dark so please read with caution, and if you think there is something that can be triggering, stop reading!!!! I care about you all and I don't want someone to be hurt by my writing.  
> Anyways, please enjoy <3

**_ **1966** _ **

**__ **

_The fact that John is sitting at the piano, completely alone with only the sound of fingers hitting keys and no sign of his partner sets off alarm bells in his head._

_Yes, he had rung him up in the early hours of this brisk Thursday morning because he had a tune but just couldn’t grasp at the words he so wanted to sing, and Paul had replied with a ‘yeah okay Johnny’ which is so unmistakably, rudely Paul. Because really he should’ve told John to shut up and let him sleep, that he’ll meet him at the studio later. But ever polite, genteel McCartney took it in his stride and is on his way to play with John when the sky is still dark and the people are still sleeping._

_So that fact that it’s been an hour since the phone call, John can’t understand what would make him so late. He worries at his lip as his fingers scatter over the keys, his eyes continuously flitting to the clock like a stilted melody._

_When the hand strikes seven am there’s the sound of a chair scraping as he stands, pulling his jacket tight over his shoulders before trekking out of the studio._

_There’s no one else here yet, there’s still another hour before the bustle of the studio and the reporters and photographers and all the other crap John can’t deal with right now because he doesn’t know where Paul is._

_It’s silly, he thinks, because Paul could’ve just fallen back to sleep by accident, or maybe he’s just stuck in traffic. But Paul wouldn’t fall back to sleep because John knows Paul would’ve lit up a smoke as soon as he put the phone down, and John also knows full well as soon as Paul is up he’s up. And there can’t be traffic if the city is still quiet, the odd car passing as he stands on the studio’s steps._

_He sighs, shaky and perturbed, before lighting a ciggy, and he walks down the steps towards his car._

_God he’s so going to kick his arse if he’s still asleep._

_He drives away, one hand on the wheel as the other has the ciggy, holding it to his mouth as he sucks on it anxiously. He drives towards Cavendish, the world passing by swiftly as the car moves along the roads._

_John’s head isn’t very nice when it comes to these sorts of things._

_His mind ticks, telling him that Paul’s gotten into a crash or he’s fallen out of bed and hit his head, or even that one of the fans has maybe torn a limb off or something. The thoughts whirl around his head and he grimaces, blowing the smoke out of his nose as he rounds a corner. He knows something’s not right, but logically thinking, he knows that it isn’t likely that anything drastic has happened. God, he hopes not._

_To distract himself, he thinks of all the ways he can kill Paul for worrying the hell out of him. He thinks of maybe shouting at him until he withers and dies, though thinks hitting him over the head with a frying pan would work better._

_And because he has a sick sense of humour, he laughs and stubs his cigarette out into the ashtray._

_He really needs to learn to not get so anxious when Paul doesn’t show because no matter what Paul will always be there. Paul told him himself he won’t ever leave him, and John had seen the earnest, piercing honesty in his eyes, softened around the edges by youth._

_So he doesn’t doubt that Paul will never leave him. Well, only a little. Because who would John be if he didn’t doubt the people he loved._

_He pulls into the Cavendish driveway, immediately spotting Paul’s car, gleaming under the soft sunrise through the trees._

_He’s still home then, the bastard, and the panic in John slithers away to be replaced with something akin to quiet anger, which makes him get out of the car and slam the door shut, loud enough that he hopes Paul will hear it from inside. He mutters under his breath as he walks to the door, pulling out a spare key from deep within his jacket pocket, before unlocking it and stepping in._

_The first thing he notices is the smell._

_It travels into his nose, landing thickly in his sinuses. The air tastes like he’s sucking on pennies, and it sickeningly twists around his tongue in an attempt to make him throw up. There’s a disconcerting emotion swirling in his stomach, foreboding the idea of moving further into the house._

_But he does anyway, because what else is there to do._

_All the lights are off, bar the bedroom he can see from down the end of the hallway. He hears the creak of the floorboards under his feet as he walks towards the lit room, eyes landing on the red marks on the door frame. The door to the bedroom is half shut, and he almost stops himself from going in when the smell becomes worse making him gag a little into his fist._

_He breathes. Once. Then opens the door._

_There’s red. That’s the first thing his mind registers and the fact that there’s so much of it. The white linen on the bed has been dyed a dark brown as the blood dries, and the things that were previously on top of the bedside table are scattered over the floor. He inhales, the sound nasal and raw, and he steps forward, hearing the crunch of glass under his heel._

_“Paul?”_

_He asks it quietly, though it’s a lost cause because he knows Paul isn’t here. He can feel it in the stillness, the way the air simmers in need of cheerful awakenings that seize to draw breath because the one person they need isn’t here to do it. He gulps and presses his hand against his chest in an attempt to stifle a sob, but it rips from between his ribs violently leaving him breathless, his eyes stinging with tears threatening to spill._

_“Paul,” he says again, if only for himself. It seems like his voice is too loud, too heavy, and it sinks into the room like a wrecked ship no one can save. It doesn’t even echo, just lies flat, awaiting an answer that won’t come._

_He walks back out of the room, the sound of liquid dripping from the bed deadening as he shuts the door. He moves a little way forward through the house, following the trail of blood pasted on the floor to try and see if he can find even a glimpse of how any of this happened._

_And that’s when he sees the back door wide open, the hinges kicked in making it slump forward slightly. There’s a handprint on the white panelling, like a last cry for help, and the sight of it makes John’s knees buckle, landing him in the puddle underneath. He screams, primal and harsh, pinning his hands into his hair as his face scrunches and his body bows forward. His knees dampen, stained scarlet against denim-clad legs, but he doesn’t move. He can’t._

_It seems like Paul has broken his promise. He’s left him. And John doesn’t know if he’ll be able to get him back._

_— —_

** **1968** **

** **

“They’ve got a new lead.”

Brian says it simply, rupturing the quietude, and John doesn’t move, only flicks the ash from the end of his cigarette into the bowl at his wrist. His eyes strain on the way ahead, the idea that this could be something more than a false promise, but he’s quick to dismiss it before his mind can run away with the thought of past hopes.

“Aren’t you going to say anything?” Brian asks, his voice strident yet capitulated to the idea that the words haven’t sparked a new joy in John like they once had.

“What do ya want me to say?” John asks, flicking his eyes closed as he fits the ciggy between his lips. He relishes in the quiet for a moment until the anger becomes more prominent, harder to bury when it nips and bites at his insides with a desire for a way out. He removes the cigarette from his mouth and blows the smoke through his nose, opening his eyes again to look over at Brian. The older man looks cautious, and John doesn’t blame him. His emotions range so quickly in a minute that it even scares himself sometimes. He sucks in a breath and replies lowly, like he’s almost ashamed of the words emitting from his throat.

“What do ya want me to say, Brian? This has been the eighth so-called ‘lead’, and nothin’ ever happens of it, so I’m sorry if ya think I’m not happy at the news or whatever the fuck ya want me to feel.”

He crushes the ciggy into the glass pot, following the smoke with his eyes as it rises and disappears. He twists his wrist, a loud crack snapping through the air like a calm thunder, the sound evidence of years of neglect, unused and no longer wielded for the work on a dusty-stringed guitar. 

“He’s dead for all we know so there’s no point riding a lie that will only kill us in the end is there?” he says, his hand moving to rub at his cheek, two-day-old stubble grazing his palm eliciting a small amount of pain that only makes him continue.

John expects Brian to bite back at his words; John’s waved the red flag and Brian can’t help but run towards it, though he’s not surprised when Brian just sighs instead because there’s no way he’ll break into a fit of annoyance in front of John. John can only know it’s because he’s scared of what he’ll give back. Brian chucks back the rest of the whiskey, sending it down his throat in a way to coat over his nerves with a new kind of armour, and he stands, not making any move to touch John. No hug or shoulder pat. No comfort. John can’t remember the last time someone touched him.

“I’ll ring you if I have any more news.”

He leaves before John can reply, and John takes a long pull of the bottle of vodka by his side. Alone.

_All the lonely people where do they all come from?_

It was a question Paul had asked, and at the time John couldn’t answer. He had only felt lonely a few times in his life, but most of the time the gaps had been filled with Paul, the younger boy always a constant. Until now.

John knows those people derive from a soul made up of a persisting reliance on someone else, and they become abandoned when the other person is ripped away cruelly. He thinks back to Paul, his Paul, and blinks as the memory starts to blacken around the edges. He leaves it quickly before it can ignite, not wanting to lose the echo of a past he so wishes to return to.

He takes another gulp of the bottle and smashes it against the wall with a rage-wielded fist. 

Brian’s words seem to have done more harm than good, and John retreats to the bedroom in hopes that tomorrow he’ll forget.

— —

_He’s sat on the steps of the front porch with his head buried in his hands when Brian sits down next to him. He’s quiet for a while, and John can feel his eyes sear into him with a stretch of pity and guilt._

_“John?”_

_He says it softly, the same voice he uses when one of them needs help, the one he uses when the four of them are slumped together in the back of a van after a bad concert, and John sniffs and looks up at him. His eyes sting and slide down to the object in Brian’s hand, and Brian moves to place it between John’s trembling fingers, acrimony encasing the strangled air around his throat._

_“They found it in the bedroom. I thought you should see it for yourself.”_

_John doesn’t look at Brian, and instead traces the pads of his fingers over the folded piece of paper, feeling the crease on his palm._

_He sighs, though it quivers under the weight of his lungs, and he feels Brian shift next to him uncomfortably before John unfolds the letter to read what’s inside._

**_**Don’t think you’ll be getting him back.** _ **

_The paper is thrust quickly back into Brian’s hand as John makes a wounded noise high in his throat, before standing up abruptly and stumbling over to the wall on the opposite side in a blind attempt at stability. He throws up, liquor and bile hitting the gravel beneath him, and he keens loudly, the liquid dripping from his lips in a long string that he attempts to wipe away with his hand, but misses as his hand collides with his jaw. A hand reaches his shoulder, calmly rubbing it to get him to calm down, and in his dazed mind he briefly thinks it’s Paul, only the hand is smaller and too rough, unfamiliar, and reality smacks him brutally when he realises it’s not Paul. It’s Brian._

_His stomach reacts violently and he bends over, digging his fingers into his knees as he retches again, though it’s mostly now just bile and he gags at the taste staining his tongue._

_— —_

He wakes up to the sun in his eyes, and he groans, burying his head into the duvet as a way of protection. He’s not quite awake, not quite surfaced from a dream that washes away reality, and part of him want to roll over and tuck his face against the chest he long yearns for. The thought torments him for a while, his face smothered by the white blanket until he relents and rolls over only to find the opposite side of the bed cold and desolate. He blinks for a while, curling his hands into the linen, hearing the crisp sound of flesh against sheets, and he closes his eyes for a moment, imagining another body stirring next to him. Brian told him it would do him no good to dwell on the dreams of the past, but it seems to suck him in with a force he can only succumb to because it’s better than the present he lives in.

Brown eyes look back at him, eyelashes curled darkly over the bare ebony, a smile extending from the edges of his eyes to deep within his soul. It’s a face much missed, and John fears that he’ll blink and the face will be gone. So he stares back, embracing the comforting silence until he reaches out, nerve endings in search of contact, only his hand comes up empty, so he opens his eyes and looks down to see his palm spread against the sheet instead of the person he so wishes it touched. Paul.

John sighs, moving to rub the hand over his face in an attempt to wake himself up, and he pushes the covers off him, the cold air of a bleak Thursday morning snaking over his legs to attack at his toes, and he pulls on some socks to defend himself, though he’s not even sure if they’re his, before moving out the bedroom and into the kitchen.

He boils the kettle and gets a cup out of the cupboard. Just one. He forgets sometimes and gets two out, and he always scolds himself with a humiliated anger that lingers with him for days, and he lets it because he needs to learn that Paul isn’t coming back. But it doesn’t seem as if he can accept that, and he guesses it’s because he doesn’t want to.

He makes the tea and resigns himself to the living room. The air is lifeless, and he turns on the tv to break the silence for a while. He thinks maybe calling someone will help, but who is there to call when he hasn’t spoken to anyone but Brian for the past six months. And oho, it seems he’s found self-centred, pathetic Lennon that has strived his way to the peak of his conscience, because really why should he be thinking of poor lonely John when he should be thinking of Paul. Only the thought of the younger man seems harder, so John abates to the slander of poor, lonely Lennon, and pours half a bottle of whiskey in his tea.

— —

_“Paul McCartney of the Beatles has been missing for twelve days, authorities rumoured to say its a kidnapping, and the three remaining Beatles have yet to be interviewed.”_

_The tv is abruptly turned off by John, and he slumps back into the sofa with a groan._

_“ ‘ave ya heard anythin’?” asks George, but John can only shake his head because no, he hasn’t. No one is telling him anything. He wonders if they know more but won’t tell. He wonders if they know more but have told miss lady Jane instead, for it seems she’s slinked in and out of the limelight too many times in too little days, both taking delight and shame from the disappearance of her so-called boyfriend. John knows she knows about them, and he’ll gladly let her bawl down a microphone if it means their secret is kept._

_He hears Ringo stir, the sound of legs folding as he moves, and John looks over at him._

_“God d’ya...d’ya think he’s dead?”_

_It’s such an innocent question from Ringo, which would seem so well characterised to the Ringo of the public eye, but the Ritchie John knows is far from guiltless, both in the way his eyes betray the way he treats a bottle, and from many a time watching as he snorts a line like it’s a sport. Not that he can talk himself, but he decides the blackening of one’s own name calls for a time of solitude._

_“Fuck,” George says, whispered high in his throat, and John jerks his eyes over to the way his hands are sliding together in his lap. John wonders if Pattie knows he’s here, and he thinks that by the way George doesn’t mention her, their relationship is turning as cold as his and Cynthia’s had. It’s unsurprising, with the number of girls he strings around, wouldn’t want dear wife to know though._

_John wiggles slightly in his seat in an attempt to smother the lingering heat in his chest, and he lights a ciggy, the smoke mingling with the summer air._

_If an outsider could see them now, they’d be punished guilty based on suspicious behaviour, because it seems like they can’t function normally without the heart of the band. Without Paul, George would’ve never have joined. Without Paul, Ringo wouldn’t have been comfortable enough to stay. And without Paul, John doesn’t think he can live._

_— —_

Sometimes he wakes up with the branding of a nightmare on his conscience, thoughts painted red with the blood of the dark-haired man he’s not seen in two years, and he gets up to wash his hands, rid himself of unseeable guilt that seems to stain his hands and reside under his fingernails like dirt after digging away in the garden.

Fragments of the dreams always stay though. Sometimes he watches as they kill him. Sometimes he watches as they drag him away, bloodied and broken.

Sometimes he can hear him screaming his name in the night, and the sound of his voice is the only thing John can cling too.

— —

He grabs a piece of paper, a scrap piece he’d torn off the back of a notepad, and he writes down a few words that flow through his lips like the tide coming in. Effortless and inevitable.

The words these days have a dark silhouette to them, but John can’t find it in himself to write anything happy when he has a world he doesn’t know what to do with.

He writes it down in black ink- _but blue is better Johnny. Black is too dark_ -watching as the letters tangle and slice into the page. He hums the tune as he does, the melody skimming his mind like dipping your toes into a cold bath, and he sets the pen down before reading it.

_Images of broken light which dance before me like a million eyes they call me on and on._

The side of his mouth crooks upwards, his tongue darting over his bottom lip. He never particularly likes writing anymore, and he definitely won’t lay his hands on an instrument, but he still likes to vent in a way he only knows works. Songwriting. Only he feels betrayal lurking under his skin because really he should be writing with someone else. He wonders is Paul will forgive him for writing without him. It’s a fucking stupid thought because he doesn’t even know if Paul is alive.

He screws the paper up and dumps it in the bin. He breathes for a second, a small whimper of sorts sounding from his mouth, and he kicks at the bin.

He wonders where Paul is, wonders how far away they’ve dragged him too, whether he’s a few streets away or across the other side of the world.

He curses himself as he picks up the wrecked paper, unfolding it and smoothing the crease against the table. He picks the pen back up, scribbling down a few words before he leaves it. Finality at its finest as he walks away, the words on show for a glimpse from the awaiting oblivion.

_Across the universe_.

— —

_“I don’t think we can keep doing this.”_

_Her voice is delicate, softening the edges of anguished words, and John can only look at her. Julian sleeps in his lap, his face tucked gently against John’s shoulder, and Cynthia gives a sympathetic smile at the sight. She takes his hand between two of her own, cold skin against smooth fingers, and he finally clears his throat._

_“What do ya mean?”_

_Her smiles twitches, her eyes mired, and squeezes his hand gently._

_“We can’t keep doin’ this. You can’t keep pretending you still love me.”_

_She blinks away a tear, and he rubs a gentle hand against Julian’s back if only to comfort himself._

_“I do love you,” he says, though he knows it’s not the whole truth. He does love her, just not in the way she wants._

_“Not as much as him,” she says, and he can’t say anything to defend himself because it’s true. He feels his eyes sting and Cynthia frowns, quickly taking Julian from his grip to put him to bed._

_When they’re gone he digs his fingers against his eyes, phosphenes of green and blue assaulting his vision and he breathes in a sob. He won’t cry._

_But soon there are hands sliding over his back, and he looks up, their eyes meeting before he keens, and she lets him falls against her chest. She holds him for a while, comforting him as he weeps. It’s the first time in months he’s let himself just cry, and he feels ashamed that he couldn’t even wait until he was alone._

_When he’s calmed down enough to hear her, she speaks of lawyers and divorce papers, her voice kind leaving tendrils of pain in its wake. He accepts it all because deep down he agrees. He can’t keep her strapped into a life he can’t even handle himself right now._

_If he had Paul, this would all be okay. If he had Paul, there wouldn’t be a need for any of this in the first place._

_“I love you, John,” she says, kissing his cheek with a finite essence he longs to wipe away. Instead, he smiles, kissing the side of her jaw as both an apology and an answer._

_— —_

Sometimes it’s hard when the only heart beating in the house is his own, inner light swallowed by a darkness of guilt and longing, and he wonders how long it will take before he will find joy again. Or maybe it will find him. He’s not sure.

One thing he knows is that he probably won’t find anything if he can’t find Paul.

— —

He’s not surprised when he sees the flash of a camera at the end of the street. He ducks his head and jams his hands into his pockets. He knows the photos will be pasted over the front pages tomorrow, ‘ _Lennon leaves his house for the first time in days_ ’. It’s not even anything exciting, and yet he can guarantee there’ll be reporters around his house tomorrow, asking why he thought he could leave his house without being tracked down.

He sighs and enters the shop, the kind old lady behind the counter giving him a smile. He likes her, she never asks about the band or Paul, she only ever asks about him. And he likes that, despite himself. He picks up a few things, hands shaking a little as he puts them on the counter, the buzz of the blunt he’d smoked earlier dying away.

“How are you John?” she asks, and he smiles and shrugs.

“Alright. Got a few photographers on me arse today.”

She laughs and adds up the money, and he gives it to her with a mumble of ‘ _keep the change_ ’.

“John, look after yourself lad.”

He stops and turns to her, his eyes hazed with momentary perplexion, but he nods with a smile before leaving.

He lights another ciggy and breathes the smoke out, shutting his eyes as he lets himself take a minute before he opens them again and continues back home.

He can feel someone lurking, probably the same photographer as before, and he snaps his body around to be face to face with a young man, camera around his neck and a piece of paper in his hand.

“Sorry if I’m interrupting you-“

“You are,” John snaps, flicking the ash off his cigarette as he arches an eyebrow.

The man stammers a little, his mouth moving oddly in an attempt to redeem some sort of sentence from his lips. 

“I just... I was wondering if you’ve heard anything about Paul?”

John fits the smoke between his lips, inhales, and condescendingly blows the smoke in the man’s face.

“Nope.”

And with that, he turns his back and walks away.

— —

_John watches Brian’s car pull up outside, and he’s quick to open the door and let him in as a Brian shoves through the crowd of reporters on his doorstep._

_“Have they been here all day?” Brian asks, his face red and hair a little dishevelled from battering his way inside._

_“They’ve been camping out there for a week,” John says, moving to fill the kettle up and put it on the stove._

_“What is it then?”_

_He guesses its better to just get it out and no tiptoe around the subject that’s important enough that Brian couldn’t speak of it over the phone._

_Brian is quiet, and John can feel his eyes observing him as he turns his back to the kettle to face him._

_“When do you want to get back to the studio? We need to finish the album before the deadline and-“_

_“Let me jus’ stop ya right there,” John interrupts, eyes dark as the words rally his anger._

_“We’re not goin’ back to the studio without Paul.”_

_Brian’s lips press thin and he crosses his arms, his stance defying John’s attempt at shooting him down._

_“An’ if he doesn’t come back?”_

_John holds the eye contact, squinting slightly as if not quite believing the words that have come out of Brian’s mouth._

_“Then no more Beatles.”_

_The high pitch whistling of the kettle interrupts them before Brian can get another word in and John turns and takes the kettle off the stove, pouring out two cups of tea._

_“Look, if George and Ringo wanna go solo then so be it, but there’s no fuckin’ way I’m goin’ back into the studio without him.”_

_He hands Brian his tea, who accepts with a low frown._

_“Jus’ talk to me about somethin’ else. I can’t deal with this shit right now.”_

_Brian sighs loudly and stirs his tea, and John watches him quietly, the fight seeping out of him as his shoulders relax and he rests his elbow on the counter._

_— —_

The shrill ring of the phone punctures the air waking John up from his alcohol-induced nap on the sofa with a jump. He rubs at his eyes and squints into the darkening room, fiddling his hand around the table next to him for his glasses. His fingers find purchase on the frames and he fits them on his nose with a low groan before sitting up and stretching a little as he stands. The phone continues to ring, and he follows the sound, knowing the only person it can be is Brian.

His picks the phone off the receiver with a huff and places it to his ear as his eyes search for his pack of smokes.

“Brian why the hell are ya calling me at fuckin’ four in the morning? I was havin’ a bloody nap ya-“

“John, would you shut your fucking mouth for a minute and just listen to me?”

John’s mouth snaps shut. Not only has Brian swore, which is so unlike high-class accented Brian, but his voice is bordering distressed which only makes John’s heart hit the floor like a leaden boot.

“What’s goin’ on?”

He hears Brian sigh, which does nothing to reassure him, and his fingers tighten on the phone.

“John, they’ve found him.”


	2. II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Paul is back, under the care of the hospital, but is John prepared to see his lover after being apart for so long?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay next chapter!!  
> I didn't think this fic would be so popular but I've already had so many wonderfully lovely comments. I hope you enjoy this chapter just as much as the last :)  
> PLEASE READ THE TAGS!!! I know I said this last time, but I can't express enough how important that is, because I don't want anyone to be triggered. This fic will get quite dark so please read with caution, and if you think there is something that can be triggering, stop reading!!!! I care about you all and I don't want someone to be hurt by my writing.  
> Anyways, please enjoy <3

When he arrives at the hospital, Brian is waiting for him outside, pacing two and fro in an obvious attempt to calm himself. There are no reporters around, well, John can’t see any in the dark though he doesn’t doubt there’s probably someone hiding in the shadows, but it’s obvious the press haven’t caught wind of what’s going on yet. Brian has probably held everyone under the instructions of being discreet with the threat of a lawsuit if they don’t comply.

John gets out of the car, shivering slightly as the cold air hits him, and the driver Brian had sent to pick him up drives away.

“Is he okay? Can I see him?”

The words are frantic, pulled from his chest in a whelm of panic, and Brian stops pacing to look at him, face crumpled in anguish as he looks back at John.

“Just follow me.”

John doesn’t say anything else, and he follows Brian into the hospital. The light burns his eyes and the smell of antiseptic makes the remnants of last night’s liquor climb up the inside of his throat. He can hear the staff whispering as he passes, but he’s too nervous to even look at them never mind spit a snide comment.

They take the stairs instead of the lift, the reason unknown to John until they reach the third floor where Brian quickly shuts them both in a small, private waiting room. John frowns and turns to Brian, who’s already sitting in one of the chairs.

“What’s goin’ on?”

Brian clears his throat and picks up a book, flicking through the pages a few times as he replies “you can’t see him yet.”

John splutters, wanting to throttle Brian for not giving him a straight answer.

“Why not?”

His teeth are gritted, his fists clenching at his sides, and Brian has the audacity to sigh rather loudly and it causes John to practically hiss at him.

“His doctor’s going to talk to us when we’re all here.”

John feels like ripping his hair out. Brian’s eyes look up from his book, watching John closely as the younger man splutters.

“Who’s _we_?”

“They want the Beatles.”

“Brian there’s been no such thing for two years! Ya think they’re gonna come all the way here in the middle of the night?”

“They’re already on their way,” Brian replies, his eyes cold, almost daring John to reply back. Witty remarks aren’t even reaching the edge of John’s mind as he slumps on the sofa opposite Brian, patting down his pockets in search of his pack of ciggies.

Before he can even light one, the door opens, a familiar head of brown hair and observant eyes entering, and John can’t help but think the man looks so different but ultimately so the same.

George’s eyes land on him, though there are too many emotions disrupting his expression for John to know what he’s feeling. He notices his hair is longer, though not by much; no longer a mop top, but it creeps down just past his ear with a sweeping fringe, and it almost makes John miss the moustache lining his upper lip. It quirks upwards slightly as his lips pull tense, and it’s the ghost of a smile John’s not seen in over a year.

No one speaks, John doesn’t know if it’s from the awkwardness or the tense awaiting news on Paul, but George nods at Brian before sitting down next to John, holding his hand out expectantly. John lifts an eyebrow, and George’s eyes flick down to the ciggy in his hand.

“Give us a smoke.”

John almost laughs. The first time they’ve seen each other in months and he doesn’t even have the nerve for passing pleasantries. Then again, they’ve always skipped formalities since they were kids, so why is this any different? John passes a cigarette over, lighting it up with his own after striking a match.

Silence washes over them, the smoke pillowing the atmosphere somewhat, and John exhales as he crosses a leg over the other, settling back against the sofa.

“How are ya?”

His voice is like gravel, and he winces as it scrapes at the walls before landing them back in silence.

George shifts, tapping the ash off the end of his ciggy in the ashtray.

“Fine. Pattie’s at home. She sends her love.”

John’s lips close around the cigarette as he nods. Of course, dear, sweet Pattie. John doesn’t know how they’ve even stayed together this long. It’s a bitter thought, though he finds himself wondering if they’re still together for each other, or more for the idea of staying as a single unit in case the fourth Beatle is found.

“Right,” he replies, sitting forward, elbows on knees as he rubs at his head with his free hand. He can feel George watching him. He expects it because if anyone is going to be upset by the situation, it’ll be him. It’s not like Paul was anybody else’s lover. Not even Jane, who’s gotten herself married and shipped off to American in search of new horizons. Leaving England. Leaving Paul.

“I’m fine y’know,” he says.

George’s eyes don’t break their stare. John sighs, tugging a hand through his hair.

“I know yer not, John. I don’t think anyone is.”

John turns his head to face George, who’s eyes are glazed with foreign affection, because when was the last time they saw each other? The lines creasing George’s eyes and signs of a hardened jaw impose that it’s been too long. John sniffs, breaking eye contact as he crushes his cigarette out, rubbing at his nose with his other hand.

“‘M fine.”

He hears George sigh, but he doesn’t say anything, letting it hang heavy in the air as they settle back in silence.

The clock ticks by another twenty minutes before the door opens again, this time a shorter man with a recognizable face that’s short of its usual smile. Ringo doesn’t say anything as he sits down next to George, patting the younger man on the thigh in a casual greeting. It occurs to John that whilst he’s not spoken to either of them for over a year, it seems as though the other two have at least kept some contact. It irks him that they’re so normal around each other, and he wonders when he drifted away.

“I’m going to get the doctor,” Brian says, his words slicing the air as he stands before leaving the three Beatles alone.

“God I hope he’s okay,” Ringo says, drumming his jewelled hand against his knee. John exhales loudly as he sits up straight, wiping a hand over his face as he says “well at least he ain’t fuckin’ dead.”

He gets two disapproving glances, but he can’t reprimand himself when he knows it’s true. This situation could have been so much worse if the worst-case scenario had happened and Paul had been found dead. He hopes.

He can’t help but wonder if he’ll still look like Paul. If he’ll still sound like Paul. If he’ll still be _his Paul_. Because really, if Paul isn’t even a hint of the same man he was before, if he’s too broken for John to fix, John thinks the worst-case scenario is much preferred.

— —

The doctor has a white coat and a pretentious look on his face that makes John almost want to slap him. They’re sat around a large table, in what John thinks must be a meeting room, now joined by Paul’s doctor, Paul’s nurse and a police officer.

“How is he?” John asks, not even waiting for the doctor to introduce himself. He doesn’t like being kept in the dark, never been the sort to lay low and let everything pass over him.

“Mr McCartney is stable but he’s not in good condition, physically or mentally.”

His voice is firm, and it’s clear he knows what he’s talking about, although the information is not enough. John could already have guessed Paul wasn’t going to come back to them unscathed. When nobody interrupts, the doctor clears his throat and continues, eyes flitting almost cautiously between the young men.

“Paul came in with fresh lacerations to his arms which we have sewn up carefully, and we are giving him blood considering the amount he lost. He is bruised all over, though they look at least several days old, and there are signs of long-term abuse in x-rays showing wrongly-healed broken bones and the marks on his body, as well as how thin he is.”

John actually feels the moment his heart splits, splintering down the middle as blood gushes out of him, because how can this be true? How can Paul be so hurt?

After a few minutes of silence, Brian pipes up, his voice low and unstable.

“What about his mental well-being?”

The doctor sighs and rubs at his head before his face turns sympathetic, almost pitying, and John thinks it shouldn’t be them that he should feel sorry for. It should be Paul who’s been held captivate under the abuse of his kidnappers for over two years.

“Not good. When he came in, he said he didn’t want visitors, but I think we can relook at that.”

“Good,” John sighs, his voice bordering on trembling as he sits back in his chair, eyes locked on the doctor. “I’m not leavin’ till I see him.”

The doctor quirks an eyebrow but remains silent, and John watches as the police officers shifts, placing a pad of paper on the table.

“When we found him there was no sign of any other person, and it looks as though he’d been placed there in order to be rescued rather than kept.”

The officer doesn’t look up at them, and John can feel anger burn at his fingers. He clenches his hands in his lap.

“We’re currently collecting evidence, and we’ll be speaking to Paul for any more information.”

John watches as Brian nods at the policeman, who disappears out of the room shortly after. John turns to the doctor again, hands still clenched under the table.

“Can I see ‘im?”

The doctor shares a look with the nurse. “I’ll go speak to him. If you all could go back into the waiting room that would be much appreciated.”

John doesn’t want to go back to waiting, he wants to see Paul. He wants to make sure he’s okay, that he’s still alive. He needs to see him with his own eyes to believe them. Though he knows there’s no point in arguing, it’s not going to get him anywhere but back home, so he moves out the room, following behind Brian with his head down.

\--

It’s a long time before they hear anything, and the doctor walks in rather dishevelled, his lips tightened in a grim line. All eyes are on him and he steps forward, hands twisting together.

“He’ll let one of you in,” he says, eyes darting between the Beatles. John doesn’t like the way he’s acting, but he sits forward in his chair and stubs his cigarette out.

“Which one?”

“The one by the name of John.”

John stills, eyebrows arching as he sucks in a breath, unsure of what to do. Paul’s asking for _him_. Not George. Not Brian. Not even his da. _Him_. His mouth goes dry, and he glides his eyes over to Brian who’s looking back at him expectantly.

“Go on then,” George says, patting him on the back lightly in an attempt to break John from his prolonged daze. It does in fact work, and John pushes himself up onto quivering legs, following the doctor down into the private wing where they stop outside a door. There’s a window to John’s right, and he knows if he looks in he’ll see him. He’ll be there. And yet he can’t bring himself to lift his eyes from the floor.

“You can go in,” the doctor says, but John bristles.

“Jus’ give me a minute.”

The doctor nods at him and leaves, though not straying too far which John guesses it to keep an eye on him. He finally feels it, courage and breaking tension, and he looks up into the window.

Paul is there. He’s here. His face is turned away as he lays in the bed, his arms tucked around himself in a comforting gesture John’s all too familiar with. Even when John pushes his glasses further up his nose, the lighting in the room doesn’t give him any other detail until his eyes slant down to focus on the restraints around Paul’s ankles. _Tying him to the bed_.

John whips around with fiery anger, striding over to the doctor, his boots squeaking against freshly cleaned floors.

“Why the hell have ya strapped him up? Ya think that’s gonna help him?”

He doesn’t shout, he knows full well this is a public hospital and there are other people around, but he scolds with a voice detrimental to the calm look on the doctor’s face. The doctor sighs and pulls John to the side.

“It’s for his own good. We’ve removed the restraints around his hands now we know he’s not going to hurt himself, but we’ve kept the restraints on his ankles to make sure he doesn’t run away.”

“Hurt himself?”

John doesn’t quite know what he’s feeling, but it stirs uncomfortably in his stomach, inching higher and higher into his throat.

He watches as the doctor studies him, matching stares eye to eye, before replying “I told you he’s not mentally healthy John and you can’t expect him to be okay.”

John doesn’t quite know what to think. Paul was always the calm and collected one. He was the one that sorted business and talked to the strangers and gave the smiles. And now that the tables have been turned John doesn’t know what the hell to do.

He lets his eyes linger on the doctor before he turns back to the door. It takes a moment, and he stands with his palm twisted around the door handle, willing himself to go in because it’s _only Paul_. He inhales shakily and drags the door handle down, stepping into the room quietly.

Paul doesn’t stir, and for a moment John nearly mistakes him for being asleep if it wasn’t for the sight of his eyelashes flickering as he blinks. John bites his lip, pulling the skin between his teeth as he steps forward, carefully sitting on the chair next to Paul’s bed. He sits right on the edge of the seat, nestling his knees against the bed as he feels the frame dig in painfully. Paul still hasn’t moved, his arms still tucked tightly around his chest, and John takes a minute to study him.

His hair is different, no longer a cropped mop-top, but instead shaggy and slightly matted, brushing at his shoulders with a length just shy of George’s. He’s got a beard, though John can only see half of one cheek, but he can see it's unkempt and quite long. It’s unusual because he’s never seen Paul with so much as a five o’clock shadow. Paul had always been about his appearance, a little vain to the point that he’ll shave twice a day and spend longer in the shower than John spends his whole time getting ready in the morning. It used to make him laugh, and he’d always pick on him for it, spitting out names of ‘princess’ and ‘poof’ because they were words that bit like acid and he knew full well they’d hurt. Paul would never show it, he’d always laugh it off and smile away any need for concern, and John had known he was forgiven when he’d still get a small peck before going to sleep. So it’s quite frankly frightening to see Paul look so untidy, so _unloved_.

John picks at the cuticles of his fingers, seeking a way to ground himself, pull himself away from memories that no longer serve to help, and instead only induct pain of something that once was. His eyes stay trained on the younger man, watching his chest rise and fall shakily, as if the mere act of _breathing_ could cause pain. John sighs internally and wets his lips.

“Paul?”

His voice is dry, but he only cares for the reaction it will induce. He watches as Paul’s knuckles turn white, his fingers digging into his arms.

“Where were you?”

The question bewilders John, and he frowns. He sits up straighter, his knees rubbing against the bed.

“What?”

“Where were you, John? Did you even look for me?”

Paul turns to him now, faces John finally, and John nearly cries. Paul’s eyes are sunken in and bloodshot, his lips raw and torn apart. His voice is soft and yet holds accusation that makes John quiver. John lets his eyes soften as Paul’s gaze meets his, but Paul does the opposite. His face hardens, and there’s a dangerously unfamiliar expression settling behind his eyes. _You left me_.

John pulls in his legs and scoots further back onto the chair.

“Of course I did,” John says, and Paul’s replying look is calculating. His eyes flicker over John’s, searching for honesty before he tugs his reddened lip between his teeth and turns away, proceeding his previous position.

“You can go now.”

The words are cold and distant and so unlike Paul that John nearly scoffs, nearly kicks his chair away and throws a fit, but instead, he leans forward, his elbows resting on his knees. He won’t make a fool of himself, but emotions have never been John’s thing. They were always Paul’s. The anger sits marginally close to John’s breaking point and he runs a hand through his hair.

“Why the fuck did ya invite me in here if yer jus’ gonna send me away again?” he says, his ragged breathing filling the silence for a second before there’s a reply, though it’s quiet and small and _scared_.

“I jus’ wanted to make sure this was real.”

Of course. John doesn’t know what Paul’s been through but he knows that if there was any way Paul could prove to himself he was okay, that he was saved, it would have to be to see John. Because there’s no other figure that’s stationed themselves so willingly in Paul’s life, that has been so readily available at the snap of one’s fingers, that so desperately clung onto Paul with a greater need than their own. There was only John. The same as there was only Paul.

“I’m not goin’, Paul. I’ve only jus’ seen ya an-“

“Fuck off, John. I don’t want you here.”

Paul’s sat up properly now, his jaw tightened and his body tense, defending himself, and John swallows. Paul’s voice has become low, filling the small room like thunder on a dark night, and John feels himself lose the battle immediately.

“Paul-“

“Fuck off.”

It’s shouted, the rattle of the straps around his feet colliding with the bed frame as he hits out, but John doesn’t want to go. Not now. It’s the first glimpse of Paul he’s had in years, and he’s not going to let him go. He watches as Paul thrashes, his hands balled into fists and a look of pure fury pulling at his face. Paul’s breathing is heavy and he stills for a second, his eyes meeting John’s with a look of trepidation. But when John doesn’t move, Paul continues to shout, his voice loud and brutally painful, and John has no choice but to leave the room in fear he’ll break in front of the person he fears is too broken. The words being hurled at him shouldn’t hurt but they do, and they pick away at John’s barriers until he’s walking away, vexation beginning to build and build until he crashes into the meeting room. He’s slumping into a chair before anyone can say anything, and he bends over, a hand pushing at his ribs as he tries to breathe. It’s all too much. Knowing Paul is here and okay and safe but most definitely also unimaginatively not _Paul_.

There’s a hand sliding between his shoulder blades, and he lets out a breath before turning his head, meeting the eyes of Mike McCartney. The lad may as well be John’s little brother with the amount of time they’ve spent together. As kids, John always knew that if he was going for a jamming session at Paul’s house, Mike would always be sat on the carpet, ears intent on listening to them as they strum out a couple of songs. And Mike was nice, always trying to be the peacemaker when it came to the petty tiffs between him and Paul. But that was before. Before they were Beatles. Before they were famous. Before Paul went missing.

Mike gives a small smile, and it reminds John of how he and Paul are so alike. John can’t smile back. He can’t quite find it in himself to do anything, and so he lets everyone simmer in the silence. John doesn’t quite know how long he sits there, but soon Brian is bending down in front of him, tapping his shoulder lightly.

“John?”

Brian won’t ask the question that everyone is dying to hear be answered, and John glances over the glimmering sorrow on the faces of the crowded room. His eyes finally settle on the figure in the corner, the custom outline of Jim McCartney deposited in the corner like a coroner with a dark coat and mourning eyes. John watches him for a second, seeing the man for the first time in years after John had dragged Paul into a group and called it The Beatles. Jim had never been a fan of John’s, has always called him a bad influence since that fete back in ‘57, and they’d never met eye-to-eye on anything except the well-being of Paul. Except they differed there as well because even though they both wanted what was best for Paul, Jim wanted his son to carry on the family business and earn a living in the Liddypool town, whilst John had wanted to push Paul and take him to the top. John had always respected the man, but he rarely agreed with him, and so they never spoke unless prompted by Paul. John swallows and sits up a little, wiping away tears that have seemed to leak of their own accord.

Jim is looking at him with a mix of concern and well-concealed distress. It’s a look John’s never seen, for the man is always calm and collected, much like Paul is usually, and they both share the quality of being able to make someone break by uttering only a few words they know will hit like a sucker punch. Which is exactly why John clears his throat, pushing at his vocal cords so that he can tell them, tell Jim McCartney that his son’s not okay for fear of what will happen if he stays silent.

“He’s-” John stutters, pushing at his forehead as he looks down and heaves a breath.

“He’s not okay. He looks so different and so ill, and he kicked me out.”

John’s voices cracks and he cringes, sitting back in the chair to bring his knees up to his chest. The hand on his back has moved to his shoulder, and Mike squeezes it gently. Brian has stood up now, a whisper of a breath leaving his lips as he walks out of the room.

“He kicked ya out?”

George’s voice is too loud, and John flinches ever so slightly.

“He doesn’t believe we looked for him.”

John’s voice is small and it stills the air. He hears Ringo shift and George’s foot tap against the marbled floor. Maybe they hadn’t tried hard enough. Maybe it was their fault Paul wasn’t found sooner.

John rests his cheek against his knee, Mike’s hand pulling away as he sits next to his father, and John looks at the light from the hallway pouring through the door’s window into the dimmed room. He wants this to be over. Just go back to waking up to his Paul, mop-topped, cheesy-grinned, Beatle Paul with sleep softening the edges of his eyes and quirking at his lips. It was bliss back then, hiding in sheets together as they climbed the charts, darting from hotel to hotel with giggles and memories they can savour together. And yes, they were going to give up all the touring because it just seemed too hard, but right now John would give anything to be hauled around from concert to concert if it meant Paul was still mop-topped, cheesy-grinned, Beatle Paul.

“Thought we had it bad before, didn’t we lads?” John says, his voice flat as he stays facing the door. No one replies, and he doesn’t expect them too.

Brian is back in shortly, his strides longer and his head dipped, and John turns his head to watch as Brian approaches Jim, making the older man sit up straighter.

“They’re allowing you to see him. He’s sedated, for now, so they think it’s best if you see him now before he wakes up.”

John only catches half of the conversation, one of his ears muffled against his knees as the other strains to hear Brian’s intentionally low voice. Jim nods and stands, following Brian back out leading the room into a silent prayer that everything will be fine. Hope is all they can cling onto right now, and yet John feels like his grip is slipping.

\--

So far, John and Jim are the only two allowed in the room, and after Jim retires back to his hotel for the night, John spends the rest of the daylight hours in Paul’s room, remaining there even after the visiting hours end and the nurses try to kick him out. He pleads, and his famously sweet face is enough to persuade them that he’ll not be a nuisance.

George and Ringo go back home in hopes they’ll be able to see Paul tomorrow, whilst Mike and Brian stay in the waiting room in case anything happens. Not that anything will because Paul’s still asleep and the chances of anything going wrong is very unlikely.

John spends most of the time dodging sleep, and instead opts for reading through the magazines given by the hospital and watching his sleeping mate. The bandages around Paul’s wrists make the skin of his arms look even paler, and John grimaces at the thought of why they're there. He can’t bear to think of what they could’ve done to him, what they could've done for the bandages to lead all the way from his wrist to the dip of his elbow.

Paul’s lips part slightly, the ankle restraints rattling as he stirs. He won’t wake yet, John knows, but it still makes the older man sit up incase.

Paul’s thin in a way that looks sickly, his skin stretched taut over fragile bones. John wants to take his hands in his own, feel them against his palm, the heat and the softness that have become less familiar over time. But he won’t, for fear of waking him or fear of bones breaking John’s not sure.

He scoots his chair closer and rests his elbows on the bed, hands sliding under his chin as he looks at the younger man. He wonders what Paul will look like when the beard is shaved off and when his hair is cut back to a more reasonable length. He wonders if he’ll still even resemble the man he used to be. He looks too different now, his cheekbones more prominent and his skin a sickly grey.

John sighs slightly, rubbing a hand over his forehead as he trains his eyes on the sheets beneath his arms.

“Y’know it’s not yer fault,” he breathes. There’s no use talking to Paul when he’s asleep, but he so desperately needs to get the words out before they rot in his chest and make his mouth turn sour.

“Whatever happened, it’s not our fault either. We looked for you, everywhere. Every night there was a search up until the year mark, and even then Brian had private detectives looking for ya.”

John stops, his breath stifling slightly in his chest, and he presses a hand to it as if it will ease the pain.

“I never gave up on ya, Paul,” he says, quieter this time, and he wipes at his eyes when tears pool in the corners. It’s so hard, the feeling of relief smothering him but at the same time the pain of the person he loves the most being so badly hurt eating at him from the inside. He doesn’t know where to breath, where to just _be_ without thinking this is all somehow his fault.

He sighs and brings his elbow back down on the bed before looking back up at Paul’s sleeping face.

Only, Paul isn’t sleeping and is staring back at him with wide eyes. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading this chapter :)  
> Please please please let me know what you think! Comments and kudos are very much appreciated <3  
> You can find me on Tumblr @lovely-rita-meter-maidd, and you can send in an ask request or let me know what you think.  
> Thank you for reading, stay safe and I love you all <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3


	3. III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s hard when he’s had no one to rely on for so long, but then he’s being thrust into being someone’s anchor when he’s not even afloat himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all your comments on the last chapter. You're all so lovely!  
> This chapter is the longest so far at nearly 6000 words, and unfortunately, there's no Ringo. I'm sorry all you Ringo fans. This chapter is a little bit lighter than the last, but there is still lots of angst.   
> Also, remember I'm not a doctor. I study psychology and I have experience in mental health, but I am no way qualified in anything so if anything is wrong I apologise.   
> PLEASE READ THE TAGS!!!!!! I know I always say this, but I can't express enough how important that is, because I don't want anyone to be triggered. This fic will get quite dark so please read with caution, and if you think there is something that can be triggering, stop reading!!!! I care about you all and I don't want someone to be hurt by my writing.  
> Anyways, please enjoy and don't hesitate to let me know what you think <3 <3

_It makes for quite a scene, the two of them splashing their way through puddles with John’s hand crimped in the back of Paul’s jacket, the thunder clashing with their laughter until John’s pushing them into an alley with stumbling giggles._

_It dark, the street lamp across the street not bright enough for them to see anything now that they've hidden themselves in the depths of the backstreet, but John can tell Paul’s smiling from the way his shoulders are lifted and the crinkles at his eyes that are shadowed enough for John to see them. The rain is dripping from their fringes, and John shakes his head, water spraying everywhere which causing Paul to swat at him with a muffled laugh. John shuts him up quickly, pushing him against the wall so they’re chests are pressed together, the water making their leather squeak and their t-shirts stick together. He can feel Paul’s breath, hot and wet against his cheek, and he lowers his arms, squeezing Paul’s waist softly._

_Paul lurches forward, his lips colliding with John’s in a messy kiss as the rain spits at their backs. It’s nice, daring even because John would have never thought Paul would be so eager to show this kind of affection in public. Then again, Hamburg changed Paul in a few ways, made him more audacious, more willing to do things they wouldn’t even think was possible in Liverpool._

_John pulls away after a moment, eliciting a slight whine from Paul as he leans forward to search for the absent lips. But John shushes him, a slender finger pushed against Paul’s mouth, feeling how the plump lips dent with the weight. Paul’s eyes are curious, John’s not sure if his pupils are blown from either the prellies or the idea of a shag, but he brings his finger down, pulling at Paul’s lips before he says “You need to promise me somethin’”_

_He watches as Paul’s eyebrows draw down, a frown pulling his face taut. He must have sounded serious, John thinks, for Paul’s expression looks almost afraid._

_“Anythin’ Johnny,” Paul says, his arms reaching up to nestle in the front of John’s shirt and John lets himself be pulled a tad closer, eyes never leaving Paul’s._

_“Promise me ya won’t leave.”_

_Paul titters, smoothing his hands down the expanse of John’s chest to sit lightly on his hips._

_“What you on about?” Paul says, bending forward slightly with another giggle until John kicks at his ankle, making his head snap up again. Paul’s face changes then, morphed into underlying compassion and John feels his throat clog up and his chest heaves._

_“Of course I won’t,” Paul says finally, earnest tearing at the edges of his words as he looks John in the eye, promising a future he doesn’t have control of. John smiles now, a few tears slipping free, and he lets them drop to the ground with the rain, his insecurities washed away before Paul’s pulling him closer again. John drops his head against Paul’s shoulder, stuffing his nose against his collarbone. He smells like Paul, ciggies and alcohol and leather with that delicate freshness that reminds him of home. He kisses Paul’s neck softly, feeling the younger man hum in satisfaction before they’re pulling each other back onto the street._

\--

The next few days are hard, to put it lightly. It seems as though John’s talk had switched something in Paul’s brain, coincidently taking the blame off of everyone else and landing it on himself which, unfortunately, leads him into a hunger strike.

John goes home the next morning when Brian pleads with him to take a shower. The alcohol still clings to his clothes and his breath reeks of stale liquor so he goes home and showers, _alone_ for the first time since they found Paul. He relishes in the water, turning the handle so the temperature’s almost scolding, but he lets it pelt at his skin, letting himself detach from his surroundings. He stands there for a while, everything finally piecing together in his head. There’s so much that’s happened in such little time, he’s now almost thankful that Brian had ushered him home. The silence is unnerving though, the same suffocating vastness that had taken his life for two years, but now there seems no need for it. Paul’s here. He’s safe.

John only wishes he can bring him home already. He knows there’s going to be an argument about that though. Because no doubt Jim will want to take his son home with him, back to Liverpool to be coddled like his little boy again, but John doesn’t want that. And he suspects it’s not practical either. Because really Paul should stay in London so he’s in contact with the police, and it’s obviously not okay for him to go back to his flat just yet, so coming back to John’s house would be the perfect plan. John can only hope they’ve not fallen too apart to ever live together again, because in reality that will be the last straw in letting himself be ripped apart. If it hadn’t been for Cyn, Paul would’ve lived there before anyway, so John hopes that Paul will seek the familiarity, finding comfort in being at least somewhat home.

And it will mean John won’t be so alone.

He changes into decent clothes this time, nice black drainies with a white shirt because he’s sure they’ll be people sneaking around in hopes of finding out any information, and he won’t be surprised if he or one of the others have to make a statement by the end of the day. He brushes his hair, noticing his hair is still well-kept, and it makes him feel slightly guilty, for what, he’s not sure. Because really it’s not his fault Paul’s looking so deathly. It’s not his fault that Paul was taken. It is, and yet it isn’t. The thought of being responsible plagues him like all those times before, but now he has the physical evidence that no only is Paul not okay, but he’s not really Paul either. His throat starts to close and he tightens his jaw, a twang of uneasiness ploughing through his chest with pain he’s not even sure is real. Or maybe his heart _is_ actually breaking. He starts to laugh, despite himself, because here he is, crying over a hairbrush. The tears splash against the sink and he watches as they slither down the drain. He sniffs, putting the hairbrush back on the side, avoiding letting his eyes look in the mirror because he knows what he’ll see. It’s the same lad that cried himself to sleep every night after Julia died, the same boy that had cried along with Paul when they carried a conversation about their dead mothers. The same man that screamed himself hoarse when he’d found his lover had been snatched viciously from him with no warning.

He sighs, brushing a hand over the stubble lining his cheek as he slams his lungs against his chest wall before leaving the room abruptly, abandoning the torment as a reminder for when he gets home.

\--

When he gets to the hospital there’s still no crowd of reporters, but Brian is quick to pull him to the side once he’s inside.

“You’ve got to talk to him, John,” Brian says, and John frowns because Brian sounds frantic, his voice quivering as his hands snake around each other, and John has no clue what he’s on about.

“What?”

“He’s… God he’s refusing to eat anything. He won’t say why but he’s not having it, and he’s already had a feeding tube put in because he’s too malnourished as it is.”

John doesn’t know what to say, so he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he lets Brian plead at him, holding his gaze on the older man. He can’t really believe what he’s hearing, because he was sure his words last night must have made some impact on Paul. Only, now he’s afraid it’s made a negative effect, but he doesn’t understand why Paul wouldn’t want to eat. It doesn’t make sense, and John can’t twist his mind in a way that will make him understand.

“Please just… just speak to him, John. You’re the only one he’ll listen to.”

John wonders why that is. Paul’s dad and brother are here, so why aren’t they his confidant instead. Though, when he thinks about it, it’s always been that way. Paul had always gone to John for help, not Jim, not Mike. But _him_. So why should it change now? John thinks he doubts the idea of Paul trusting him because he’s scared the two of them will never be what they once were. He doesn’t know if Paul will ever be stable enough to be back in a relationship, but he hopes he will be. Eventually.

“Okay,” he says, and Brian gives a soft smile, a hand coming up to slide over his shoulder, a comforting gesture that makes John almost let out all the emotions that are attacking at him from the inside. He nods at Brian and together they make their way up to Paul’s room.

\--

Brian leaves him as soon as they’re outside Paul’s room, but John’s almost too afraid to go in. He’s so worried about him and yet he doesn’t know if he can bring himself to face the important matters. He just wants to be able to hold Paul and take him home and not have to deal with the things that can hurt so cruelly, but he doesn’t see that very likely just yet. He lets out a long breath, puffing his cheeks out a little before he steps in.

He notices straight away that the restraints have been taken off, for Paul is huddled in on himself, his knees up to his chest with his cheek pressed firmly against them so that he’s looking away from John and instead out of the window. It makes him look even smaller, a position so un-Paul like that it makes John squirm a little. Because Paul was always the one to make his presence known, sitting upright with head held upwards to peer down his nose at any snobby looking person that disregards their work as something other than a representation of the times they’re in, or he was directing the studio with high hands and clever wit, his body language always sufficing for people to know not to piss him off. He was always John’s opposite because what John would spit through words, Paul would aim with just the gaze of his glare. So consequently seeing Paul trying to attract as little attention as possible is unsettling, almost disturbing in fact.

Paul doesn’t move when John sits down, so John gingerly clears his throat, though it gains no reaction.

“You okay?”

Paul turns his head so the opposite cheek is resting against his knee, and his eyes trace aimlessly over John’s face with an indistinguishable expression. John’s gaze lands on the feeding tube tucked into his nose, and he withholds a grimace at the sight of it and why it’s there.

“You sound different.”

John wants to scream, wants to shout at Paul and tell him it’s his fault. Because he hasn’t spoken with anyone but Brian in a year and his words have become more twisted than they ever did before and it’s entirely Paul’s fault. Except it isn’t. Which is also the reason why Paul had avoided answering John’s question.

“Must be the ciggies,” John replies, resting back in his chair as he lets his body relax, not wanting to cause an unnecessarily hostile environment. Paul frowns, moving his hands from where they’ve hooked around his ankles to sit on the tops of his knees as he moves his head up. John has to hold in a flinch at the sight of Paul’s bruised cheeks that have now turned a deep purple.

The silence is enough for John to ponder for a while, and he ends up wondering whether after all this, after the two years have gone by, whether Paul still loves him. Because if there’s no love there at all, John is almost afraid they will never be able to even scratch the surface of what they used to be.

“Do you still love me?” John blurts, regret instantly clinging to his vocal cords making him snap his mouth shut. Paul blinks at him, a disquieted gaze flicking over his face before he replies, his voice soft, unrecognisable compared to the shouted anger from the day before.

“Why wouldn’t I?”

John doesn’t respond, simply fidgets with his hands in his lap, eyes dropping to stare at the floor. Because there is his answer, laced between the lips of his former lover, and yet John doesn’t know if it’s enough. It shocks him because he was sure after what happened yesterday that Paul’s hatred would stay, but it seems that it hasn’t, at least it hasn’t stayed directed on John.

“Do you?”

The question makes John’s head snap up, and Paul’s eyes have finally let their guard down, the vague indifference replaced, confronting John with so much raw agony he can’t turn away.

“What?”

Paul wets his lips, his eyes trained on John, almost afraid of his reaction.

“Love me?”

John wants to throw up. He inches forward, placing a hand on the bed close to Paul’s leg but not close enough to touch, not close enough to cause unnecessary contact, but it gives some comfort nonetheless. He watches Paul’s fingers skate over the linen, tightening slightly over his ankle, a breath away from John’s own.

“Of course I do,” John replies, and he expects Paul to break out into a smile and release the tension sitting on his shoulders, but instead the younger man goes quiet, pulling his hand back close to his chest as he turns his head away, bringing it back down to rest against his knees.

John doesn’t know what else to say, and so he greets the bull with the red flag dead on, though he knows he’s not going to win this fight before it’s already started.

“Please can you eat,” he says, his words trying, _pleading_. He watches as Paul’s chest moves up and down before a short reply.

“No.”

There seems no room for argument, and yet John tries anyway because who would he be if he didn’t defy against others.

“Paul, they’re not gonna let ya out if you don’t eat.”

He reaches out, his hand coming to rest along Paul’s arm for reassurance, except it makes Paul flinch so violently at the unexpected contact that his body throws to the side, fear lining the depths of his eyes, and John is quick to snap his hand away as though he’d hurt him. He doesn’t understand, because Paul had always been about showing your emotions through touches. He used to always kiss John if he was happy, stoke his hand when he was having a bad day, or even hug when everything was just too much. And he’d taught John to do the same. So not being able to have that outlet, that security between them makes it hard for John not to crumble there and then.

Paul seems to compose himself after a brief moment, and he subsequently drops his eyes, shifting back into his previous position with his head turned away from John.

“Come back later, John,” Paul says, his voice flat and unwelcoming with his face still turned away, and John gives up. He sighs softly before leaving the room, his eyes clouding slightly as his brain tells him that he shouldn’t have been so harsh. And yet he can’t find the evidence in his words that would prove he was in the wrong. He hopes he’ll be able to persuade Paul next time because he just wants him home and safe already.

\--

John can’t feel anything now. His fingers dull and his sight blurs, the sound of his breathing ricocheting in his ears. He steps back a little, trying to regain balance but he’s pushed, gravity winning the battle, and he slumps forwards expecting to hit the floor. Hands steady him, grabbing at his shoulders, and he so desperately wants to push them off. He’s tugged forward and he lets himself fall, sobs seized from his chest so utterly ruthlessly that his fingers dig into the other person’s back and he buries his face against their shoulder.

It takes a while for his breathing to somewhat normalise, but he waits a moment for his vision to come back before he lets himself take a deep breath and pull away.

Brian is looking at him, concern pooling in the corners of his eyes making them crease around the edges, and John finally lets his hands fall away from the other man. He grunts out an apology, pressing the heel of his palms into his eyes as he sniffs. He can hear Brian sigh, and when he opens his eyes again Brian shakes his head.

“John-“

“Don’t.”

John lets his eyes drop to the floor, emotions fizzling in his chest that he can’t quite identify. He’s not sure if he’s upset or angry, or maybe he’s just too broken to understand what he should be feeling.

“I understand how you’re feeling, John but-“

“No, Brian,” John snaps, his eyes finally jerking up, flashing with something akin to whispered vexation.

“No, you don’t understand. You can’t possibly know how hard this is.”

Brian goes quiet, the air lying featureless between them like a long-forgotten melody caught up in a web of petty displeasure. Brian straightens slightly, his eyes narrowing as he slides a hand down the front of his suit, the creases flattening against his palm.

“And you don’t understand how hard this is for Paul.”

The words slam him in the chest but John makes no movement to indicate the effect on him. Instead, he shoots a glare Brian’s way before turning out the room, the doors slamming against the walls as he pushes them open. He doesn’t know where he’s going but he needs to get away, get away from the scrutinising glances and brutal assumptions, and so he keeps walking until he’s out the back of the hospital. He can’t go out through the front because he’s sure there’ll be reporters lurking there by now, and so he lets his lungs fill with the fresh air before he throws himself into a fit of rage, or maybe it’s disconsolation, turning abruptly to let his fist meet the brick wall. Pain bursts around his knuckles but he persists, a cry bubbling from his lips as he continues to punch the wall like he’s in the ring of a boxing match with an unfair opponent. By the time he’s done, he can feel the blood slide between the crooks of his fingers, the warmth of it causing goosebumps to rise in the flesh around his wrist at the temperature contrast with the cold November air.

It’s hard when he’s had no one to rely on for so long, but then he’s being thrust into being someone’s anchor when he’s not even afloat himself. He’s giving himself an ultimatum because even after two days he’s not sure he can take this anymore. And that’s not only letting himself down, but he’s also letting Paul down. Paul, who’s frightened and ill and cooped up in a hospital room after being abruptly pulled from a living agony. So, John gives himself two options; walk away, or let someone help him. John can be a very arrogant man, always letting the thin line of superiority dance all over his words, but this time he feels that he needs someone. The first option, he decides, is illogical, because really if he walks away, he’s walking away from the Beatles too, and that’s just impossible and he’ll end himself back up in a paradoxical twist of the British media. There’s also the fact that he’s still elbows-deep, hysterically in love with Paul that the very idea of losing him again is incomprehensible.

So, he decides to go back to Paul, or maybe find George, he’s not sure yet. He just needs the presence of someone else, pry him away from the webbing in his own head that’s persuaded him he can't do this anymore. Because he can. He’s sure of it, he’s got this far and he’ll just end up being pissed with himself later on if he walks away knowing full well he only kept himself alive all this time to find Paul. So now that he has him there is no chance he’s leaving.

\--

“Can I hug you?”

Paul shifts, his eyes wide as they train on John’s face for a second before he pulls his lip between his teeth and clutches the blanket into his hands.

“I- No,” he says, quickly looking down as he brings his knees up to his chest. John realises he’s going to get nowhere if he pushes him so he decides to try another way. He sits a little closer, noticing the way Paul has lifted his eyes to watch his movements almost warily.

“What about if I hold your hand instead?” John asks, his voice soft, trying to sound as least threatening as he can. Paul blinks at him, comprehending John’s words, but he doesn’t answer. John holds his hand out, not too close, but just within reach so Paul can take it if he wants to.

“Look at it this way, you’re taking my hand, Paul. You’re making the move.”

Paul looks between John and his hand and there’s a moment where John’s sure Paul’s just going to shake his head and turn over, but instead, the younger man shifts a little, lowering his legs before he lifts up a shaky hand. He’s hesitant, but he slips John’s hand into his own. 

John can feel the tremble in Paul’s fingers and he tries to ease it, brushing his thumb over the back of his hand as Paul’s wrist starts to relax against his own. It's weird, finally being able to _feel_ Paul because he’s changed so much and yet his hands still feel the same. Calloused around the edges with softness sweeping over the palm and John feels more comforted by the feeling of Paul’s hand than he does actually seeing him. It makes it more real. It makes the feeling of wanting to just take him in his arms even more overwhelming, but John knows to take it one step at a time.

He smiles softly, brightening when Paul's lips quirk ever so slightly, and he squeezes his hand, bringing it closer to his chest.

\--

“We’re gonna have to say something to them y’know.”

John sighs, slipping the ciggy between his lips as he looks over at Brian. They’ve gone back in the waiting room, knowing Paul will be okay without the presence of another for a while.

The press have appeared slamming at every entrance with a cry of ‘where’s Paul’ because someone in the hospital let the word out. Brian has tried to control the crowd, tried to push them away with the promise of a set-up interview but they’ve decided that’s not enough. They want confirmation from the Beatles that Paul’s okay.

“We’ll go out jus’ give us a bit of time.”

Brian nods silently, stubbing out his ciggy before he leaves the room to be updated on Paul, leaving John to chew on the end of his ciggy and stew in his own melancholy, heading thrumming at the idea of having to speak to the press for the first time in years.

\--

John’s not even sure how Paul got out here. The doctors had said that he was too weak to keep his own body weight up, never mind walk around. So he bases this newfound strength solely on adrenaline because there is no other possible way Paul could’ve got up and out of bed and through the hospital without a driving force.

“Paul.”

Paul doesn’t reply, his body swaying slightly like a paper doll as the wind pelts at his skin, his body looking uncharacteristically small in the hospital gown that hangs off his body. It’s too cold, John’s already trembling after being out here for less than five minutes, and he has no idea how long Paul’s been out here. John approaches him, trying to keep calm as he brings himself to stand next to his lover, landing his gaze in the same direction as Paul’s.

There are two birds sat on the edge of a tree branch, nestled together for warmth, and when he flicks his eyes over to Paul’s, he almost sees a sense of longing in his eyes.

“C’mon, Paul,” he repeats, but Paul shakes his head, diverting his gaze now to John. John notices the blue tinge to his lips, and the way his fingers crimp stiffly into his sides.

“I’ve not been outside yet,” Paul says, his voice shaky and withdrawn, before he glides his eyes back over to the garden.

John wets his lips, wanting desperately to just grab Paul by the arm and go, but he knows that will only make it worse. But the question that haunts him is when was the last time Paul went outside and was lucid enough to remember? Bile starts to travel up his throat, scorning his insides with fear because surely it hasn’t been two years? The very idea that Paul hasn’t been in the fresh air, in the _world_ , for so long makes him swallow, saliva washing away vomit as he slowly pushes a hand out.

“It’s too cold now, but I can take you out here tomorrow?”

Paul looks at his hand, blinking slowly in the remnants of the afternoon sun before he gingerly slips his cold fingers between John’s.

They take is slow, the energy slowly starting to drain from Paul making his feet stumble and he presses himself tight against John’s side. When they turn to the door, John can see Brian waiting for them, a wheelchair in hand, and John couldn’t be more thankful for anything in his life.

\--

“What should we get him?”

George looks at him, expecting an answer. John shoves his hands in his pockets. He's enlisted George's help in trying to get Paul to eat again, and so they're trailing there way down the busy London streets for a good place to get food. He'd tried to bring Ringo along too, but the older man seemingly thought it was too early, and he had to look after his kids anyway.

“I don’t know,” John says because it’s been so long he doesn’t know if Paul still has the same apatite.

“Well, what would you get him normally?”

John continues to shrug. George stops walking, his eyes glinting with something akin to impatience but his face softens when John gives him a helpless look.

“What did you buy him in Paris?”

_Paris_. Now that was a long time ago. And yet it hasn’t been long since it last scraped the edge of John’s mind. He thinks about it often even, because he felt happy there, shared wonderful days with an equally wonderful man, and there is not a chance in the world he’ll ever let himself forget. He remembers the way they held hands under the Eiffel tower, sleeves pulled down past their fingers so no one can see. He can remember the way they sat back on the grass, fingers grazing the stars as they huddle shoulder to shoulder. He can remember the way they made love in that tiny bed in the dingy hotel, the way Paul wore his name on his lips so deliciously.

And he remembers when they’d slipped into that quaint twenty-four-hour cafe at the end of the road at three am and drank themselves silly with banana milkshakes.

John meets George’s eyes, taking in a shallow breath before he smiles.

\--

Paul’s staring. He’s been doing that a lot, John's noticed. Maybe he’s thinking about how life’s going to be from now on. Or maybe he’s reliving the horrors from the past two years that John can’t even imagine. John watches Paul through the window, the way his eyes are aimlessly trained on the blank wall opposite, and he sighs, turning back to George who’s swaying slightly on his feet, hands wringing together so that his fingers pinch at the delicate skin of his wrist.

“I’ll go in first, then I’ll see if he’ll let ya in,” John says, earning a nod from George who has become increasingly anxious as soon as they had entered back into the hospital. John doesn’t blame him. He’d felt the same way the day before when he was on his way up to Paul’s room, the whole prospect of seeing one of your closest friends after being apart for so long seemingly almost daunting.

He gives one last smile, patting George softly on the shoulder before he pushes the door open and walks in. Paul’s eyes snap to him immediately, and John stops for a second, their eyes watching each other before Paul shifts, adjusting his position on the bed so that he’s facing John a little better.

“I’ve got ya somethin’,” John says, smiling slightly as he lifts up the bag in his hand. Paul frowns at him, hand picking at the loose thread of the blanket.

“What?” Paul asks, sounding almost unsure of how to react until John is pulling out a drink. John places it on the table next to the bed and smiles a little at Paul’s confused look.

“I thought if ya were goin’ to eat anythin’, then it would be a banana milkshake.”

John hopes to high heaven that Paul won’t push it off the table, not wanting to deal with the rejection as well as the rollicking he’ll get off the nurses. He watches as Paul’s eyes flick down curiously, his lips parting ever so slightly before he looks back up at John.

“Really?”

John doesn’t know what he’s done to earn that question, because why the hell would he lie. He doesn’t bite back with sarcasm though, instead he pushes the drink closer to Paul.

“I’m sure.”

Paul still doesn’t look reassured and John internally sighs before taking the drink back into his own hand. He brings the straw up to his lips and drinks it, only a little, but Paul watches him closely. He pulls it back again and extends his arm out.

“See? I promise ya it’s fine.”

Paul blinks at him before he nods hesitantly, trembling fingers reaching out to take the cup. John pushes it into his hand, lightly tracing their fingers before he leaves it in Paul’s hands.

Paul still looks a little doubtful, but he takes a sip. There is a hint of a smile on his lips again, never the real thing, but it’s good enough for John.

They sit in silence for a few moments before John clears his throat, gaining Paul’s attention again.

“George is here. He wants to see ya.”

Paul lets the straw slip from his mouth and thins his lips, a hand coming up to scratch through his beard. He opens and closes his mouth a few times, the words slipping through the air like dust until he replies.

“I don’t... No. I don’t want him to come in.”

Paul turns his head away but John won’t let himself be pushed out. Not again. He scoots his chair forward, placing his hand on the bed. As soon as Paul’s eyes notice it, he softly moves it to sit on his thigh.

“Please? Jus’ for a few minutes. He only wants to see ya.”

Paul looks desperately like he wants to say no, but he puts the milkshake back on the table and sighs.

“Okay.”

It’s whispered, just loud enough for John to hear, but he pats his leg gratefully before going to get George.

“You can only stay for a few minutes.”

George doesn’t seem all to pleased with that, but he follows John in nevertheless, fidgety and nervous. It seems the only problem with George being overly-nervous is that he seems to let his mouth run away from him. As soon as Paul turns to him, George opens his mouth and doesn’t stop, no matter how many times John tries to butt in and makes him stop. As George rattles off all the things he’s missed like Ringo having another baby and Cynthia divorcing John, John watches as Paul’s face twitches, his fingernails sinking into his legs painfully. The more George talks, the more Paul starts to shake.

“Oh god we’ve missed ya so much, Paul. Everyone at home can’t wait to see ya again an’-”

“Stop,” Paul says, his voice shaking as he brings his hands up to his hair, pulling on the strands violently. It seems as though George doesn’t hear him, for continues on and on, and John stands, quickly hauling George out of his seat and into the corridor.

“Wha-”

"Jus’… go find Brian, George,” John says, quickly flashing a pained smile before he hurries back into the room.

Paul’s got his eyes scrunched up, his body bent in half as he heaves with every breath. John can see the tears landing in his lap, a pained noise, almost animalistic, ripping from his throat as he keens. John flounders, unsure of what to do because he can’t just snap Paul out of this. He climbs onto the end of the bed, sitting up on his knees just in front of Paul’s feet. Paul doesn’t react to him, too far gone to comprehend anything, and so John reaches forward, placing his hands on Paul’s shoulders. Paul doesn’t flinch or pull away, only continues to cry, and that’s when John decides he has no other choice. He reaches forward, fingers digging into Paul’s back as he pushes the younger man towards him. Paul complies, his face appearing briefly letting his eyes confirm its John. John looks him in the eye for that split second, noticing immediately that it’s not Paul. Not really. This is fear if he ever saw it. Paul clings to him, and John holds him just as tight, finally having Paul in his arms for the first time in two years.It's not under the circumstances he wanted, but he’s finally a tiny step closer to the normality they had before.

John’s shirt is wet but he doesn’t move. He strokes Paul’s hair gently, thumbing through the long dark strands as Paul starts to calm down; starts to come back to reality. Maybe letting George in was too early. He should’ve waited longer, waited until he was more stable. He thought that by bringing someone else would be easier, make things a little more comfortable. But being as selfish as he is, he didn’t think about Paul in the slightest. He didn’t think how distressing it would be to have the presence of another forced onto you.

He snaps himself out of it quickly, turning his attention from his self-pitying mind back to Paul, who’s settled now, his shaky breath against the crook of his neck. John shushes him quietly, stroking his back softly with his other hand. He turns his head after a while when he notices the lack of movement, and he sees that Paul’s eyes have closed, his exhausted body finally letting him sleep.

John let the tears slip now, unnoticed by his lover, and he sinks his face into Paul’s hair as he continues to sob.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone didn't realise, the flashback sequence at the start refers to what John says in chapter 1.   
> Thank you so much for reading :)  
> Please please please let me know what you think! Comments and kudos are very much appreciated <3  
> You can find me on Tumblr @lovely-rita-meter-maidd, and you can send in an ask request or let me know what you think.  
> Thank you for reading, stay safe and I love you all <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3


	4. IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Paul is finally able to leave the hospital

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry this took me so long to post, writer's block was hitting me really hard.   
> I'm not the biggest fan of this chapter, and sorry it's not very long, but it adds a few points to the plot that I know I couldn't leave out.   
> PLEASE READ THE TAGS!!! You should already know by now that this fic is going to get dark, so please please please don't keep reading if you think anything can trigger you.  
> Anyways, please enjoy <3

It takes a week of physiotherapy and a scheduled appointment with the hospital’s psychologist before they deem Paul well enough to go home. Of course, as John predicted, Jim McCartney had been adamant to take his son back to Liverpool, but to John’s surprise, it wasn’t his or George’s or even Ringo’s words that persuaded the elder McCartney to let Paul rest in London. It was Paul.

He’d spent the week awfully quiet, finally letting in more visitors but not speaking a word to anyone but John. Sometimes there would a reply, hesitant and dismissive if someone was asking about his health, but there would be no conversation unless it was lead by John, and then he would only direct his attention to him. It was odd. John can’t distinguish Paul’s emotions anymore and there always seems to be an underlying waver to his voice. It’s like the force behind his voice has crawled away, leaving a shell of a man John’s not sure he even knows anymore. But the day the doctor announces that Paul will be able to go home the next day, Jim McCartney straightens from behind Paul’s bedside with an adamant expression, telling everyone how he’s going to carry Paul back home and give him a somewhat normal life. And John splutters, spitting excuses of how Paul can’t ever have a normal life, both from being a Beatle and from disappearing for so long. The argument becomes heated fast, the two of them slamming words from across either side of Paul until the younger man has enough.

“Stop,” he says, and the fact that it's directed to his father and not John causes the two older men to shut up.

“I’m goin’ with John.”

Jim opens his mouth to say something, but the look that flashes across Paul’s face causes him to snap it shut again, leaving the argument in a simmering heat that makes John graze Paul’s leg gently, out of sight of the older man, to try and at least calm him down a little. It seems to work, and Paul drifts back into his quietude slumber, his head sinking back into the bed with a breath. Paul doesn’t look at him, but John strokes his leg softly before pulling away.   
Jim leaves shortly after, a curt nod and half a smile with a firm ‘ _get well soon_ ’ directed to his son before he heads on home to Liverpool with a not-so-willing Mike in tow. John sits with Paul for a few more minutes, letting his hands skim over the linen as Paul curls up to face him, a finger scratching at the irritated skin peeking from behind the bandages. John moves, hooking a finger around Paul’s hand to pull it away and stop the skin from becoming more aggravated than it already is. He laces their fingers, an intimate gesture John’s more than thankful to have, and he offers a smile, though it halts before it can dent and soften his cheeks. His tight expression doesn’t seem to phase Paul who continues to stare, eyes brushing over every detail as if he’s looking at John for the first time. John almost blushes, embarrassed by the solid attention solely on him, but instead drops his eyes, feeling the stiffness edge the joints of Paul’s fingers.

“I should go,” John says, flicking his eyes up momentarily to seek out an expression from Paul. Paul blinks, his face unreadable.

“We’re doin’ an interview outside in a minute. But I’ll be back after,” he says, shifting in his seat a little before adding “If you want me to.”

Paul moves his hand, circling the narrow sharpness of John’s wrist.

“Please.”

John pauses for a second, feeling Paul’s cold fingertips sweep the softness of his inner wrist, letting the unfamiliar boniness dabble about his skin before he clears his throat and stands, giving a short nod as he lets his hand slip away.

\--

They’ve been sat in the meeting room for nearly half an hour waiting on the last band member. Brian had been in and out, constantly trying to make sure no reporters sneak their way in, and George has kept himself to himself in the corner, a ciggy dangling from his lips. John takes a drag of his own and observes the younger man through squinted eyes. George has been awfully quiet since his first meeting with Paul. He’d got a firm scolding off of Brian but John had hugged him after, knowing that he should go easy on the lad when its not really his fault that he upset Paul. It's not his fault that he didn’t realise that Paul isn’t the same Paul they used to know.

George drums a finger over his knee, eyes skimming over the door every time there is a shadow of movement. Honestly, just the fact that George is sat with him and hasn’t left him alone lets John know that he needs to stop being so secretive and that he should let George help more. Paul was just as much George’s best friend as he was John’s, and it's unfair to seclude him after waiting for so long.

The only problem John has right now is facing the press and the arrival of Ringo. Ringo hasn’t really been to see Paul, only lurked in the corridor with a sour face and trembling hands. John doesn’t blame him if he thinks this is all too early, too quick, but it's unfair on Paul. It's not Ringo who’s been missing for two years, and yet the older man seems to forget that.

The door opens quickly, Brian marching in, a thunderous look twisting his face with a somewhat half-conscious Ringo in tow. John frowns and stubs out his cigarette, standing to full height and meeting the eyes of Brian, who looks back with equal disappointment.

“Are we gonna do this then or what?” Ringo spits, words slurred around the edges, making John stiffen.

“Are you drunk?”

"I’m surprised yer not,” Ringo replies, tilting his head back slightly. John wants to throttle him. Of all the days to get lashed, this isn’t one of them, and John desperately wants to get it into that thick skull of his that this isn’t about him anymore. He knows that Ringo’s struggling getting back into the limelight, and all three of them have certainly struggled with the drink and the drugs, but for him to do this, today of all days when Paul needs them makes him sick.

John’s in his face, chin tilted down in a dominating stance ready for a fight, but Brian is pushing him away and out the door before either of them can end up with a black eye.

“What the hell is he thinkin’?” John practically shouts, and Brian pushes a hand to his chest, stopping his rant before it can even start.

“This isn’t the time to get into an argument. You have two minutes until you have to go out there and face all those reporters. So suck it up, and have it out with him after.”

Brian words are final, and John sighs, feeling as Brian’s hand moves upwards to pat at his shoulder.

“It’s going to be okay, John.”

John doesn’t believe him, but he nods anyway.

\--

There are at least thirty reporters clumped together, and John grimaces, wedging himself between George and Brian as the questions start to fly at them. John almost wants to just tell them to fuck off and go inside, but he doesn’t and instead clears his throat into the mic.

“Paul is here at the hospital, and is going home tomorrow.”

His voice is nearly drowned out by the chatter, and the flash of the cameras make him blink rapidly, a hand coming up to tuck under his jacket to try and stave off the heavy feeling in his chest.

He hates lying.

“He’s fine, but we’re not going back into the studio just yet. We would appreciate if people keep off of our properties for now until everything becomes settled.”

There are so many eyes on him, and he manages to push out a small ‘ _thank you_ ’ before he lets Brian take over, answering all the questions that they knew were going to be inevitable. John takes a deep breath, feeling a hand pat at his back, a comforting gesture he knows all too familiar from back in their early days. John opens his eyes and gives George a small smile.

\--

Paul’s pale, paler than he has been the whole time John’s seen him. It’s the first time he has to leave the hospital, and the whole idea of going back outside is sending him into a panic. There’s still a swarm of reporters outside, and they’re going to have to make do pushing their way through. Paul’s still a little wobbly on his feet, but he’s clinging onto John’s arm for dear life, and there’s no way John will let him fall.

“You ready?”

Paul looks at him, his lips pulled between his teeth before he sighs, eyes flicking to the door.

“Sure.”

And with that, they make their way outside, the sound of reporters screaming at them making Paul practically vibrate next to him, but the car isn’t that far away and they’re inside and driving off before anything can happen. Paul’s silent the whole way to John’s house, his breathing simmering back into a normal pace after a while.

They arrive at the house and John's glad that his gates aren’t blocked by hoards of fans and reporters. Paul seems wary, but John helps him inside quietly, letting Paul gain his bearings again. John watches his wander, the way his hands trails over the counters and walls. John smiles a little and decides to let Paul have some time to himself for a few minutes. He fills the kettle and puts it on the stove, and when he turns around Paul’s no longer in the kitchen. He doesn’t hurry, but he goes to the place he can only guess where Paul will be. He finds him in the bedroom, fingers settling on the metal frame of the bed. Paul’s eyes are tracing over the room, long-forgotten, or maybe well-hidden memories surfacing, softening the harsh edges of his face. John looks at him quietly, and he doesn’t even think when he puts a hand on Paul’s shoulder, ready to ask him if he wants a drink.

Paul had been unaware of John’s presence behind him, and the contact gains an unwanted reaction. John quickly finds himself pushed against the wall with an elbow over his throat. The breath is knocked out of him, and he struggles for a second, trying to comprehend what’s going on. There’s hot breath on his face, and the strength Paul’s using to hold him against the wall almost seems impossible with how weak he looks.

John can recognise the panic in the tremor of his fingers and the strength in which his hands push him further against the wall, eyes fleeting and wide, as if he’s not seeing John at all, and instead a nightmare of which leaves him trembling with unburdened anger.

“Paul, it’s okay. It’s me.”

The arm pushed against his throat doesn’t let up but John doesn’t want to push him away.

“It’s John,” he says quietly, bringing his fingers up to rest on Paul’s arm next to his hip, and the grip over his throat loosens slightly. Paul blinks at him, bewilderment pulling at his eyes before he steps back. Paul drops his stare, digs his nails into his arm, and John reaches a hand out.

“Paul-”

“Don’t,” Paul says, flinching almost violently before he steps backwards, hands moving upwards to scrunch up in his hair as his eyes clamps shut, and John lets his arm lower. The sound of heavy breathing fills the air and Paul opens his eyes. John wants to say something, do anything to help Paul, but he can’t seem to get any words to come out, and he feels as if he’s trapped. He lets his hands drift backwards, feeling the walls scrape at his fingernails, and he clings to the feeling to try and get away from the pained and fearful expression on Paul’s face.

“I’m fine,” Paul says finally, though there’s an edge to his voice, almost like his words are trembling, and he walks away too quickly, locking himself in the bathroom, out of sight and away from John. John knows its not a good idea to leave him alone right now, but he also knows that forcing Paul out of there will only make things worse.

He sits to the side of the door, sweeping hands through his hair as he let his head dip and his body trembles with the aftershocks of fear. He’s never seen Paul switch emotions so quickly, become the complete opposite of his quiet but headstrong lover into a frightened, enigmatic man. John needs to get him back, do anything to get back even a small part of who Paul used to be. He wants his lover back, wants to be able to hold him at night and kiss him in the mornings. He wants to be able to touch him without the panic stabbing at his bones and he wants to be able to tell him he loves him without Paul thinking he doesn’t deserve.

It’s too much to ask for, he knows, though he can’t help but yearn for the man that’s only in the next room, yet seems as if he never came home in the first place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading this chapter :)  
> Please please please let me know what you think! Comments and kudos are very much appreciated <3  
> You can find me on Tumblr @lovely-rita-meter-maidd, and you can send in an ask request or let me know what you think.  
> Thank you for reading, stay safe and I love you all <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3


	5. V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Paul seeks some normality and John tries to keep both of them going

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another short chapter. I know I'm sorry, but the next one should definitely be a lot longer with a lot more things going on.   
> PLEASE READ THE TAGS!!! You should already know by now that this fic is going to get dark, so please please please don't keep reading if you think anything can trigger you.  
> Anyways, please enjoy <3

It takes an hour before the door unlocks. John’s dozing, head resting against his knee when he hears the turn of the lock, and he twists his head up, watching as the door opens slowly. Paul looks down at him, eyes bloodshot and puffy, almost wondering why John’s still there. John smiles softly and hauls himself up from the floor.

“You okay?”

Paul pulls his nail between his teeth as he blinks.

“I’m fine, John,” he replies, voice heavy, pulling his hand away from his face to scratch at his wrist, the skin a darker shade of red than it had been before. John doesn’t think it’s the right time to say anything about it. He doesn’t want Paul falling out with him over something so trivial, especially when it’s vital that John keeps him safe.

He must have been quiet for too long for Paul clears his throat, eyes flickering.

“I think I’m gonna go bed,” Paul says, the shift in the air prominent, and all John can do is nod. He feels stupid, feels so out of his depth because walking on eggshells around the one person who doesn’t want it is almost too difficult. But then again he doesn’t want to let Paul go just yet, doesn’t want him to slip away into his bedroom without another word when he’s still twitching with unmasked anxiety.

“You can stay up with me if you want too,” John stammers, hand moving out to touch Paul’s wrists, but he brings them back to his side before he can make contact. They can’t go through what happened earlier again for both their sakes and John lets his fingers stretch the seams of his own sleeve.

Paul stares at him for a long time and John doesn’t know whether to say anything. Paul’s expression is almost unreadable, as if it lies between the breadths of confusion and dejection.

“You sure?”

“Positive,” John says, finally able to give a genuine smile when Paul’s cheeks pull upwards, taught but still curved. The bruises on his face have faded into a myriad of yellows and greens, and he almost looks normal. Almost. Because really someone would have to be stupid to look at him and deem him okay. His skin is too pale, his hair is still slightly matted and there are shadows under his eyes, but John hopes he’ll be able to help Paul at least feel somewhat better, even if it’s just a little.

They both need some happiness, but it looks like its down to John to provide it.

They talk on John’s tiny sofa for the better half of an hour, just little things that are so meaningless and yet can easily distract them, at least John, from what’s really happening. It’s the most Paul’s spoken since he got back, and John’s proud that he’s the one to be able to finally tug him out of his carefully built walls a little.

“Where’s Cyn?”

Paul’s voice is edging on familiar, and it makes John slightly wince at the raw habitual structure of Paul’s words, sounding like they’re still in John’s room back in ‘61 with innocence and youth. John clears his throat with a shrug, eyes flicking away from Paul’s prying gaze.

“At her house.”

Paul furrows his eyebrows and John sighs, resting back against the sofa.

“She moved out about six months after you…disappeared. Got a divorce an’ she moved out,” he says, picking at the skin around his fingernails with a quieted melancholy that he hasn’t felt since Cynthia left.

“I’m sorry,” Paul says, though it’s almost whispered, almost carried away with the low music humming in the back. John frowns.

“It’s not yer fault, Paul. You don’t need to be sorry.”

Paul nods at him but his eyes are far away, too distant for John’s liking. John scoots closer, bumping Paul’s knee with his own before hesitantly taking Paul’s hand in his lap. Its cold against his palm but he doesn’t mention it, only keeps his eyes on Paul.

“It was bound to happen anyway. An’ I still get to see Jules so it’s not too bad.”

Paul smiles a little at that. John had always noticed that Paul had gotten along with Julian a lot better than he did himself. Paul would’ve been always up for playing games in the grass in John’s back garden, or bouncing him on his knee when John was too busy to take him. Paul had almost been a second father to Julian, which is why it was so hard to explain to the boy, when Paul went missing, that he might not come back. Julian had wailed, crying out for his ‘ _Uncle Paul_ ’ until he fell asleep in John’s lap. It broke John and Cynthia’s hearts equally, and to this day still makes John sniff with unhealed anguish. He can’t wait until Paul’s well enough to see Julian again, it should hopefully cheer everyone up.

He brushes a thumb over the back of Paul’s hand.

“I think I’m gonna call it a night. Yer in the spare bedroom. Is that alright?”

Paul blinks at him for a second before he nods, a sudden change in his expression that nearly makes John ill with motion sickness. Paul is up and out of John’s grasp before anything else can be said, and he lets a ‘ _night John_ ’ tumble from his lips before he’s gone, the lock turning behind him.

John doesn’t know what just happened and he sighs, rubbing a hand over his face.

\--

“Paul?”

Paul’s bent over the sink, a razor in his hand and his head bowed. John doesn’t know what to think, but his immediate reaction is to try and get the razor out of his hand. Paul’s resistant though, knuckles white, and he looks up at him, eyes red. 

“I jus’... I wanted to shave,” he says, voice trembling more with anger than despondency, and the words at least let John’s worry simmer back down. He notices Paul’s hands shaking, the razor jilting from side to side. He guesses Paul’s looking for at least some sort of normality; something that can ground him to a time from before.

“I can do it,” John says but Paul’s head snaps quickly towards him, face scrunched in seething irritation.

“I don’t need yer help, John.”

Its spat, voice hard now, and John thins his lips. He sucks a breath through his nose, letting a beat pass before he replies.

“Jus’ let me help. It won’t take long, an’ I need something to do anyway.”

Paul’s face softens slightly, but John’s sure he’s going to be refused. He takes another step closer, reaching out to at least ease the razor into his own hand, just to be safe. Paul lets him now, the quiver in his hand more prominent.

“You jus’ sit there an’ I’ll do it, yeah?” John says, gesturing towards the closed toilet seat. Paul doesn’t say anything but he hesitantly follows John’s instructions, sitting down on the toilet.

John takes his time and goes gently, first trimming the beard before he finally shaves. It's so unnaturally calming, being so close to Paul without the unwilled tension, and he finds himself sinking in and out of his thoughts as he continues to shave. He stops slightly when he uncovers a scar on the lower part of Paul’s jaw. It looks old, just a thin scar that, unless you’re as close up as John is, you wouldn’t see it. A horrible feeling churns in John’s stomach and he has to withhold himself from breaking down. He can’t, not at something so small. He wonders if Paul even knows it’s there.

He carries on like nothing happened, and by the time he’s done, Paul’s dozing slightly, floating on the brim of consciousness. John takes a look at him for a second, the first time without Paul staring back at him. Now that he’s clean-shaven, he almost looks like he did all the way back when the Beatles were just starting, cheeks still red and eyebrows still arched. John didn’t realise how much the beard had aged him, and he almost finds himself missing it. Because, even as grim as it is, he has to accept now that this is _his_ Paul. Before, he could still pretend that this was Paul but a younger and cockier version would come back eventually. But now that Paul nearly looks the same as before, bar the sharpness of his cheekbones and the redness of fading scars, John can’t deny that this is definitely his Paul. And he feels so stupid that he had almost wished otherwise.

“There ya go,” he says softly, and Paul opens his eyes, standing up to look in the mirror. John watches as Paul’s finger tremble over the honed outline of his jaw, eyes calculating.

“Thank you,” he says, though he doesn’t look at John. It’s a sad sight because Paul had always been the vain one, always standing in the mirrors to make sure his hair was perfect and his tie was straight to the point he would nearly make them late, but now he’s staring in the mirror, not for vanity purposes, but because he hasn’t seen himself in presumably two years.

John’s heart stutters but he keeps a soft smile feigned on his lips.

\--

He calls George before it even turns one o’clock. He can’t stand the overwhelming silence now that Paul’s holed himself back up in his bedroom. He hopes the presence of the younger lad will at least help ease things a little.

George arrives with Pattie in tow, both of them pushing through the now growing crowd of reporters on John’s doorstep. John’s persuaded Paul to come out and sit with them, so he stands in the kitchen doorway when the couple arrives. John guesses George must have told Pattie the circumstances for she doesn’t hug either of them as she usually would. She smiles warmly, her bubbly energy at least letting some life resurface in the house.

“I’ve missed you both so much,” she says, and John can see how much she just wants to hug Paul. He knows the feeling.

They sit and chat for a long while over a few cups of tea, the tv droning low in the background. Paul’s mostly silent, but he’s still engaging. Still nodding and giving small smiles.

“You look good, Paul. Yer beard is gone,” George says, and Paul shrugs.

“Did it this mornin’,” he says, his voice the steadiest John’s heard it so far. He forgets that Paul is still the same kid that can put up with anything as long as you don’t see the breakdown afterwards. He’s always had such an unbreakable persona, but it surprises John that Paul will only let his guard down in front of him. Not even George, who he’s known so much longer.

“I think I might get my hair cut too soon,” he says, and Pattie claps her hands, her mouth making an ‘o-shape’ as she gasps.

“I can do it for you, Paul. I don’t mind.”

John tries to distract, tries to lead the conversation in a different direction, but Paul clears his throat and murmurs a low ‘ _okay_ ’, and John doesn’t know whether to think this is a good idea or not.

It’s not too long after they find themselves lounging in John’s bathroom as Pattie starts to chop away at Paul’s hair. Paul doesn’t say anything but he lets Pattie pet his hair, styling it gently with her fingertips. She’s not giving him back his Beatle haircut, John seemed it was too unfair to transform him back into what he used to look like as if nothing had happened. She’s mostly only styling the top and cutting away the matted areas, but as soon as she’s done Paul looks significantly better. His face is more visible and he looks a lot more tidier. The situation only starts to make John twitch when Pattie puts the scissors on the side so that she can check its all even. John watches as Paul's eyes linger on the scissors, a lot longer than just a passing blink, an unfamiliar vagueness in his eyes. John’s panicking, his fingers jerking on his knees before he stands, moving over to sit by Paul. Pattie catches his eye but he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he places a light hand on Paul’s knee. Paul jumps, and though John feels guilty, it's ultimately a distraction and Paul’s focus is now on him instead.

George and Pattie don’t stay long after that. Paul has politely slipped back into his bedroom, leaving John to say goodbye to the couple.

“He seems to be doing a bit better,” George says, but John sighs, obviously not giving the wanted reaction as George frowns.

“He’s not. He’s no better than he was a week ago.”

George doesn’t reply instantly. Pattie’s hand snakes around John’s wrist, squeezing it softly.

“He will get better, John. It’s jus’ gonna take time.”

‘ _Will he?_ ’ , John wants to say, because he feels Paul will never be better. Not completely at least. The traumas are embedded too deep, and John’s worried that Paul will open up one day and not be able to close himself back up, let the nightmares take a hold of him and pull him away from any slight chance of him being Paul again.

John just nods before he hugs them both, watching as they make their way back out into the swarm of reporters.

John sighs. He would do anything to just be able to hold Paul, hug him and kiss him and promise him everything’s going to be alright. He wishes it was that easy, because then at least he’ll be able to touch Paul without the fear of hurting him. He’ll wait though. He’ll wait until that can happen. And he doesn’t care if they never become what they once were.

At least Paul still loves him. And that’s all he ever wanted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's the last light chapter you're going to get. There will be a lot of angst from now on!!  
> Thank you so much for reading!! Please please please let me know what you think! Comments and kudos are very much appreciated <3  
> You can find me on Tumblr @lovely-rita-meter-maidd, and you can send in an ask request or let me know what you think.  
> Thank you for reading, stay safe and I love you all <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3


	6. VI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John finds he may not be able to handle this by himself anymore

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for not updating for so long. I hope you're all still interested  
> This chapter is a bit more intense than the last ones, and the angst is only going to continue from here. This chapter is also quite long so will hopefully make up for the last ones being so short.  
> PLEASE READ THE TAGS!!! You should already know by now that this fic is going to get dark, so please please please don't keep reading if you think anything can trigger you.  
> Anyways, please enjoy <3

It takes a few days until John can’t sleep anymore.

It had been quiet the first few nights, and when he had gone to bed he was comforted by the fact that Paul was only in the next room.

And yet, it’s about three days in when he can’t sleep anymore.

It’s dark by the time he retires to bed, a little spark of hope itching at his chest because Paul had been out of his room today, and he climbs under the covers before he turns out the light, letting his mind wander slightly before he falls asleep.

It’s just after two o’clock when his eyes snap open, panic rocketing through his veins in a way that makes his chest heave and he sits up, unsure why exactly he’s woken up to such a start when he hears it.

There’s a yell from behind the wall, the voice verging on a scream that John can only imagine would be ripped from someone when they’re in immense pain. His heart palpitates and he moves the covers aside, fear twisting his hands around the baseball bat at the side of his bed. His mind’s still in the late stages of sleep, and he finds he doesn’t exactly know what’s happening. His immediate reaction is that someone’s broke in, and he lets his bare feet pad their way out of his room and into the corridor.

It’s silent for a second before there’s a thud, accompanied by another wail, which now comes close to being a sob, and John turns at the sound of it, coming directly out of the bedroom next to his.

He flexes his hand around the bat, still letting it hang by his knee before he twists the door handle.

He stands for a second, startled by the image of Paul, thrashing slightly as his hair sticks to his skin, eyebrows drawn down as another loud sob is raked from his lips. He’s shaking, the head of the bed wobbling as his foot slips through the covers, colliding loudly against the wall, and John finds that, not for the first time, he’s out of his element, lost in his own house with a man he knows inside out and yet doesn’t know at all. When Paul’s head throws backwards, his back arching with a cry before he curls in on himself, John finally pushes away from the door, stumbling quietly to the side of the bed, knocking his ankle against the bedpost before he teeters to his knees. He rolls the bat to the side, eyes focused wide on Paul who’s whimpering quietly, face scrunched with unkempt pain, sweat lining his face and his lips twisted in a silent sob. John leans forward, hands quivering as if he’s waiting for something else to happen, but when Paul stays the same, keening quietly into the side of his pillow, John gently rests his hands on Paul’s arm. It doesn’t seem to do anything, and Paul continues to cry and twitch. John takes a shuddering breath and smooths his hand upwards until it’s cupped the back of his head, threading through the dark, wet hair.

“Hey,” he says quietly, the waver in his voice evident. “Paul, ya need to wake up.”

Paul’s head whips to the side, his knees pushing against his chest, and though John momentarily startles, he doesn’t pull away, and instead moves his hand to Paul’s chest, fingers prodding at the bones he can feel through the t-shirt, not even any squishiness to indicate even an ounce of fat. _Too skinny_. Before John can let himself brood over how he’d not noticed the extent of Paul’s condition for so long, he snaps his thoughts back to the present, tapping his fingers gently against Paul’s chest.

“Paul,” he says, edged with earnest, shaking him a little now because the panic is starting to tighten his nerves and cloud his head.

“Paul,” he repeats, louder now, and he doesn’t have time to realise maybe this wasn’t such a good idea before Paul’s eyes fly open and a sharp pain erupts from the side of his jaw. He blinks, dazed slightly as his eyes move back over to Paul, who’s staring back at him, chest heaving and pupils dilated, expression contorted in unfamiliar anguish.

“Paul-“

“Please don’t make me go back in there.”

Paul’s voice is feeble, and he flinches when John shifts, plastering his back to the wall beside the bed. John knows from the way Paul’s eyes stay frozen open and clouded, and the way his eyebrows are pulled together, creasing his face with something between fear and hostility, that this isn’t his Paul. This isn’t Paul at all. And instead, it’s the man who’s been captured, in the midst of torment and pain, and John’s not sure he can pull him back to reality by himself.

Instead, he carefully reaches forward, watching as Paul’s eyes follow his movements until he softly places his hand on Paul’s shoulder. Paul continues to shake, a whimper snatching from his lips but he doesn’t pull away, from fear or for comfort, John’s not sure, but he hopes it’s the latter.

“It’s okay. I won’t make ya go anywhere. Jus’ go to sleep, yeah?”

If it wasn’t 2 am and if they weren’t sat in the dark, John probably would realise that his efforts to help are, unfortunately, making things worse. He doesn’t know if it’s the touch or the words but something flashes on Paul’s face, so fast that John doesn’t have time to figure out what it is before Paul lashes out, thrashing against John’s grip with such sudden force it nearly pushes John backwards. It takes everything in John not to run and hide himself away in his bedroom, and it’s only because he knows he can’t leave Paul like this that he stays. Paul’s so distressed, so upset, and John doesn’t want there to be another second of him being in pain. He plants his hands on Paul’s arms, pulling them away from where they’d struck John’s face, and John slowly pushes him so that he’s lying flat. Paul’s legs kick at him but there’s nothing John can do about it so he lets Paul’s feet collide with his legs as he bends over a little, shushing him softly, a firm grip still on Paul’s wrist.

“It’s okay, Paul. You’re okay. You’re okay.”

He repeats it like a saving mantra, watching as Paul’s eyes eventually begin to soften, and it’s not long before his body goes lax in John’s hold. John lets go of his grip on Paul’s wrists, smoothing the red area just above his bandages.

“You’re safe, Paul,” John whispers, watching as Paul’s breath starts to even out, his eyes falling shut for longer with every blink.

John would do anything to be able to slide in next to him, hold him close and comb his fingers through his hair and feel his pulse under his touch. But he doesn’t, that’s not his place anymore, so he slowly pulls away, deciding to kneel next to the bed until Paul’s eyes shut permanently.

By the time John leaves Paul’s bedroom, it's three o’clock, and he heads straight to the bathroom, letting his hands twiddle shakily around the lock. He lets himself breathe, pushes his fists against his eyes with a somewhat silent scream between closed lips, his knees bending and eyes watering. He pulls his fingers away from his face to plant them on the edges of the sink, hunched over in hopes the porcelain will present him with something just to clear away the pain, wash it away like blood crusted between his fingers. He turns the tap and splashes his face, cold water pulling him to reality, and he winces, palms colliding with sensitive skin. He looks up, the mirror offering a person John’s pushed aside since Paul’s been back, the same person who drank himself to sleep every night, agonising over a life he once lived, and the life he’ll never get. He’s quick to turn his attention to the towel hung up, brushes away the stray droplets with clumsy fingers before his eyes gaze back on his reflection. His right cheekbone is red, almost bruising already, and he prods at it, grimacing at the simmering pain it leaves when he pulls away. His jaw is also a shade darker, rivulets of scarlet bursting between split skin, and he wonders whether Paul just had a really good punch, or his skin is weak, like he’s splitting at the seams. He runs a hand through his hair with a sigh before turning off the light and trailing back to his bedroom.

He spends an hour with his eyes open, head resting on his pillow with eyes towards the door, ears listening for any more signs of distress, wrist dangling by the whiskey bottle under his bed.

He must have fallen asleep at some point, for he’s awoken by the sound of his alarm, and his fist hits the off button before he has enough time to even gauge what hour it is. He lets his mind fizzle into a quiet slumber as he pushes himself out of bed, walking on dead legs towards the bathroom with a yawn. There are bruises littering his legs but he pays no mind to them, brushing his teeth with a grunt of pain with every slam of the toothbrush against his sore cheek.

The phone is heard from downstairs and he frowns, spitting the toothpaste out before stumbling downstairs with legs bare and hair frazzled.

“Hello?”

“Would it kill ya to call me? I should ‘ave yer head, Lennon.”

The familiar shrill jolts John, pain throttling his head for a split second before he breathes a reply.

“Mimi?”

There’s a sigh from the other end, and John pulls a hand down his face.

“‘M sorry.”

He says it quietly and Mimi tuts. He pushes the phone closer to his ear, a hand prodding at his bruised jaw.

“Is he okay? Is he still in hospital?”

It must have hit the news he guesses, and he pulls a breath deep from his chest.

“He’s with me. At Kenwood,” John replies, fiddling slightly with the phone chord.

“And he’s okay?”

He doesn’t reply, doesn’t think he can even give one.

“Oh, John,” she says, words anguished and heavy, and he can practically see her with a hand over her mouth, quivering from the tips of her fingers to the worry of her lip. “Do you need me to come down?”

He scratches at his nose, eyes scanning the room but he already knows the answer. He can’t deal with more people right now, and he guesses neither can Paul.

“No, it’s okay. We might come back down later in the year an’ see ya like.”

He knows they more than likely won’t, but it’s an incentive to drive her away from the idea of coming down to London against his will because he knows it will only make things worse. And he doesn’t think it can even get any worse.

“Okay, John. I’m only a phone call away, y’know? An’ it won’t do ya any harm ringing me once in a while.”

He huffs a laugh, strained through his nose as he bites the side of his finger, and he replies with a sarcastic lined “ _yeah, yeah_ ,” he hopes will pass off as sounding normal.

“Take care, John,” she says, and with one last final goodbye he hangs up, pressing the phone firmly down on the hook. There’s emotions swirling in his stomach, threatening to rise up and spill over, but he can’t quite label what it is. The phone call stirs something in him that within moments sends him on a fleeting trip to the bathroom to retch in the toilet, knees pressed into the cold tiles as he gags, tears slipping down his face, wetting his cheeks.

“John?”

He stills, head resting against the porcelain as he winces, praying Paul will just leave. But he knows he won’t. Paul had always been the mother hen, always the overly concerned boyfriend that would cling to John if he even caught a whiff that he wasn’t okay. And although Paul isn’t his lover anymore, well, he guesses anyway, it’s obvious Paul still cares for him.

He lets out a deep sigh and flushes the toilet, pushing himself up from the floor before opening the door.

Paul’s eyebrows are drawn together, concern itching at his eyes as he stares back at John. He’s got one of John’s shirts on, just about covering the tops of his thighs, and a loose pair of John’s bottoms, and John’s heart stings at the sight.

“What happened to yer face?”

John squirms slightly, desperately trying to stay calm. It didn’t even cross his mind that Paul wouldn’t remember last night.

“Had a run-in with the door in the night,” he says, his hands pulling together almost nervously, atmosphere taut as Paul squints.

“Right,” Paul replies after a second, though John’s not sure if he believes him. There’s a shift of emotions and Paul’s eyes widen somewhat, apprehension sliding back over his features as his fingers crawl up to scratch at his wrist. It draws down John’s attention, and he notices the skin looks raw, nail indents raked up into the white bandages. But it’s the purple prints around the narrow curve of his wrist that causes John’s stomach to churn.

“You okay?”

Paul’s voice snaps John’s attention back, his head moving back up to look at Paul almost startled, like a rabbit caught in the headlights.

“I’m fine. Ya don’t need to worry,” he says, and Paul gives a small nod, though he looks hesitant to move away, his eyes flicking over John’s face like he wants to say something else, and John can only stare back, hoping one of them has the courage to speak up. Instead, Paul lowers his eyes with a feeble smile, mumbling something about _‘going to get dressed_ ’ before he’s quick to disappear back to his bedroom. John almost kicks himself for not saying anything and quickly returns to his room to get dressed.

\--

When the doorbell rings, both of them are sat in the living room, spaced between the sofa and a chair with Paul half-asleep, laying down on the sofa listening to the radio and John curled in the armchair opposite, glasses tilted down his nose as he reads his book. Or rather, pretends to, because he seems to keep finding his attention on the younger man, watching every twitch and expression like it will give some sort of inclination to what’s going on in his head because he can’t seem to figure it out. And that itself frightens John. It's not the lack of emotion or the way he’ll flicker through a conversation with no thought, no, what frightens John is that Paul used to be like that sometimes, especially around the death anniversary of his mother, and yet John had always been able to read him like a book. He had the correlating details to a finesse, every turn of a lip or the flutter of an eye, John always knew what he was feeling. But now he can’t. And the events last night have seemed to spin him in the wrong direction, playing towards scared and concerned rather than just worry, because there’s so many elements John can’t control and he doesn’t know the moves to counteract Paul’s anymore.

When the doorbell rings, John watches as Paul’s eyes jerk to him with something akin to trepidation, and John gives a small smile, lips risen and edged with reassurance as he rises from his chair and walks to the front door. He prays it’s not the press, hoping maybe they’ve not realised Paul’s with him yet, and opens the door slightly, looking out onto the long driveway. Instead of a clump of reporters, there stands Brian, tall and suited with that calming look he always seems to slip on when he’s forgotten his manager position and instead becomes that of a friend. John is quick to usher him in, paranoia clawing at his arms as his hands seek purchase on Brian’s sleeve, pulling him into the house before Brian can get a word in and before John can notice his change in expression.

“John,” Brian says, eyebrows raised, and John pulls away to face him properly. “What’s wrong with your face?”

John is quick to shut the kitchen door so Paul can’t hear them, and he sighs, a hand scratching the bridge of his nose.

“S’nothing.”

Brian’s eyes narrow, and John knows he can’t lie, but he won’t tell either. Before he can push down the handle and end the conversation Brian speaks up, halting all of John’s hopes that the discussion would be finished.

“Did Paul do that?”

Brian’s voice is low, almost quivering with his face scrunched like he’s bracing for impact.

“No. Well... yeah. But he didn’t mean it,” John says, voice quiet as he frantically tries to justify himself.

“What happened? Why didn’t you call?” Brian asks, eyes gazing over the multiple bruises on John’s face.

“He was asleep. It’s not his fault,” John replies, a breath rattling his chest as he wipes a hand over his cheek.

Brian blinks at him, eyebrows furrowed and lips thin.

“I never said it was”, he says, “but you’d should’ve called. You can’t do this by yourself, John.”

John knows that and yet the defiance settles abruptly in his bones making his lips turn sour, and he seethes out a “ _watch me_ ,” before he pushes down the handle and walks into the living room.

Brian follows after a moment, walking silently over to the chair by John whilst exchanging small pleasantries with Paul, who has consequently plastered on a fake smile as soon as he saw the older man. His eyes are still blank, almost foreign to look at, but the smile is enough to fool Brian into not saying anything.

They’re silent for a while, the radio humming lowly in the back with some tribute to Buddy Holly, and the three of them exchange looks until Brian clears his throat.

“I think it’s a good idea if we go and get some of Paul’s stuff from Cavendish,” Brian says, voice tight and eyes reserved of eager emotion. John shifts in his seat, watching as Paul moves to sit up on his elbows.

“Yeah okay,” John says after a moment, standing up to stretch a little. “Me an’ you can go now an’ be back in time for lunch.”

His eyes flick over to Paul, who has pushed himself into a standing position too, fidgeting with the trousers so he can pull them up higher as they still don’t touch the narrowness of his hips.

“I’ll go as well then,” he says.

Brian stands as well now, brushing a hand over the panels of his suit, and John takes a step towards Paul, eyes soft.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Will you stop coddling me for one second?” Paul says, his emotions switched abruptly as he takes a step back, face twisted and vexation dripping from his lips, and it all happens so quick that John is left bewildered. “I’m not a child John so stop treating me like one.”

John knows he can’t win, and it’s unfair of him to try when ultimately its not his choice. He doesn’t own Paul and he can’t tell him what to do, even if he thinks he’s protecting him.

“Okay fine.”

\--

The ride to Cavendish is quiet. John decides he’ll sit in the back with Paul as Brian drives, and it surprises him slightly when he feels fingers curl around his own. He looks down, seeing Paul’s hand wrapped around his, and immediately feels so entranced by the weight of another hand in his own that he nearly loses himself, his brain taking him back to a time where that was normal, that it was a usual thing to happen. He looks up to Paul and sees he’s still looking out the window, eyes trained solely on the passing houses and greenery, but John can’t help but smile.

There are no reporters outside, which surprises all three of them, but they are still quick to make their way inside in fear someone will catch a glimpse and the press will stream along.

The house is cold, and it jolts John back to that day, the red stains still painted in his mind, and he’s glad Paul’s not let go of his hand yet. As soon as they set foot in the kitchen, John can feel Paul start to shake, tremors tilting his body as he stops, feet leaden as his eyes scan the room.

John stands thoughtfully for a second before he swallows, squeezing Paul’s hand gently.

“I’m gonna go an’ get some clothes an’ you an’ Brian can stay in here, yeah?”

Paul blinks at him but eventually nods, and John unwillingly lets go of his hand to make his way to the bedroom.

There’s still police tape across the door frame, and he ducks under it dutifully, legs rubbery as his head swarms with giddiness. He staggers slightly, a hand brushing against the walls, feeling the smooth paint prickle his fingers as he keeps his eyes on the wardrobe. He won’t look at the bed, the very notion of it causing his stomach to lurch, and so he gathers up a few shirts and trousers, especially ones on the smaller end because he doubts Paul’s the same size as he was before, and hurries his way back out, finally sucking in a breath when he finds himself in the hallway. He lets his head drop for a second, his heart thrumming in his temples before he goes into the hall cupboard to get a bag, which he proceeds to put the clothes in before he moves into the bathroom.

He scans quickly for anything still useful, noticing the layers of dust accompanying every detail, but his eyes stop on the bottle of cologne by the sink. He’s got a grip on it before he’s even aware, and he brings it up to his nose, smelling the sweet scent that reminds him of Paul. It reminds him of how things were. How they used to muck about in the studio and stay up late smoking a joint before spending the night together, wrapped up in the sheets, and Paul would always smell like this. He would always smell like home.

Just as he’s about to put it back, there’s a smash from the kitchen. He throws the cologne in the bag, dropping it to the floor as he sprints to the kitchen. The first thing he notices is Brian, frozen by the cooker, unsure what to do. The next thing he notices is Paul, who’s hunched over a counter, elbows pressed firmly into the marble as his fingers turn white, head dipped and knees bent. It’s then that John sees the glass scattered around Paul’s feet, a litter of kaleidoscope shards, and John finds his heart in his throat as he takes a step forward.

“Paul?”

Paul doesn’t reply, but John continues to move forward, hearing the glass crunch under his feet. He softly places his hands around Paul’s elbow to steer him away from the hazard, and Paul’s compliant, letting John pull him to safety. His head’s still lowered, and John gently places a hand on his cheek, bending slightly to see his face. Paul’s not crying, but he may as well be, and John frowns but doesn’t have time to say anything before Paul pulls him into a hug, tucking his face tightly into John’s shoulder.

John holds onto him tightly, keeping one hand firmly around his waist as the other brushes through his hair, letting both of them breathe for a moment. It’s nice having Paul so willingly close, and it makes John completely forget the events from the night before.

After a while Paul pulls away, eyes lowered almost shamefully.

“‘M sorry,” he says, whispered softly from his lips, but John shakes his head.

“There’s nothin’ to be sorry about, love. S’just an accident.”

It takes a while for Paul to nod, and John smooths his hands from Paul’s shoulders to his wrist, careful of the still tender skin, before he takes his hands, squeezing gently. He looks over to Brian, who’s finishing sweeping the floor, and they meet each other’s gaze for a second before John says, “we’re goin’ out to the car.”

Brian nods, with a grumble of “ _I’ll be out there in a minute_ ,” before John leads Paul out of the house by the hand, taking the both of them to safety.

\--

It’s no surprise that as soon as they get home, Paul hides himself away in his bedroom, and John reluctantly lets him when Paul promises he’ll come back out for dinner.

It gives him time to think, have some space to himself, and John knows that’s important for him to heal, but it might also cause an opposite effect if they’re not careful.

As soon as everyone‘s settled back at John’s house, with John and Brian back in their opposing armchairs, John finally asks Brian the questions buzzing in his head.

“What happened?”

Brian shifts, obviously uncomfortable, but he’s still got quite a stoic face on.

“I don’t know. One minute, he was looking around in the cupboards, and the next he jumped like there’d been a loud noise or something, and he’d dropped the glass he was holding.”

John frowns. He doesn’t understand, because if there was no noise or anything unexpected, what had caused Paul to start so suddenly? He rubs a hand over his face and sighs, leaning his head back to rest against the chair.

The phone rings and frustration crawls into his chest and pulls it tight. He stands with a huff, moving over to pick the phone up with a low greeting that grates on his throat.

“Hello?”

“John, it’s me.”

Ringo’s voice sounds almost feeble, and John’s teeth start to grind, his fingers white-knuckled around the phone.

“Now’s not a great time, Ritch.”

It seems that Ringo doesn’t listen, and he continues to talk over the tinny speaker.

“I jus’ wanted to say m’sorry. About the other day, like,” Ringo says, and John sighs, closing his eyes for a second before he says, “I’ll call ya tomorrow.”

“Okay,” Ringo says after a second, and John hangs up almost instantly, the phone hitting the hook cruelly.

“You need to sort that out you know. It’s going to do you no good falling out with him,” Brian says, and though John would agree if he’d been in a better state of mind, he finds himself scowling, moving to turn the radio on before anything else can be said, shutting down the conversation before it can even start.

He doesn’t know how much longer he can do this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will give more of an insight into what Paul went through, so make sure you're ready for a lot more angst!  
> Thank you so much for reading!! Please please please let me know what you think! Comments and kudos are very very much appreciated <3  
> You can find me on Tumblr @lovely-rita-meter-maidd, and you can send in an ask request or let me know what you think.  
> Thank you for reading, stay safe and I love you all <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3


	7. VII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Their face to face, so close John can feel Paul’s breath on his cheek. Paul’s pupils are blown, the yellowing bruises across his cheek shadowing the red skin under his eyes and smearing fresh tear tracks that must have halted before John came in.
> 
> “Kiss me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for not updating for so long. I had to take a break for a while, just to get myself into a better place, because writing this fic is hard when it's such a heavy topic. But I'm back now, and there should now be more regular updates.   
> Comments and kudos would mean the world, especially because I'm starting to lose the enthusiasm I had in the beginning. But still. I hope you enjoy this chapter <3  
> PLEASE READ THE TAGS!!! I know I always say this, but I can't express enough how important that is, because I don't want anyone to be triggered. This fic will get quite dark so please read with caution, and if you think there is something that can be triggering, stop reading!!!! I care about you all and I don't want someone to be hurt by my writing.  
> Anyways, please enjoy <3

It’s dark when the door opens, unfamiliar shadows flooding the room and even with his blurry eyesight, he knows that it’s not the usual figures he’s used to. He pushes himself up with one arm, feeling it pulsate and quiver under him, and he squints against the blackness.

Without a light, Paul has no time to move away as a foot collides with his stomach before his hair is pulled roughly so his head dangles from the mattress. He lets out a whimper, the only sound he seems to be able to make now, and two dark eyes loom in his view. Paul’s eyes roll to look at the figure, feeling the hand tighten in his hair before he’s roughly pushed back down, head smacking against the wall behind him. He lays there, not bothering to see what’s going on.

There’s something dripping down the back of his neck but he ignores it. There’s nothing he can do about it anyway.

Someone else is in the room now, speaking in a foreign tongue, though it’s evident their words are meant as cruel, spat at Paul as he mindlessly stares ahead. He gently traces the inner of his wrist, feeling the fresh bruises and scars from their last attempts. He darts his tongue over his lips but it does nothing to dull the slicing of the split skin.

He doesn’t know when they leave but it goes quiet, and Paul finds that he’s just too tired. He doesn’t know how to get out of this anymore.

There’s a fragment of light peeking onto the wall. Paul only notices out of the corner of his eye, and he frowns, lolling his head in the direction of the locked door.

Except the doors _ajar_ , a crack of light seeping through the small crevice, and something bursts in Paul’s chest.

He doesn’t know how he does it, but he stands, hands grappling at the wall for leverage as his knees wobble and his head spins. He stumbles forward, feet scuffing the floor, pain flooding his body as he reaches for the door.

This could be it. This could be his escape.

He looks out of the small crack, wincing at the fresh light, and sees a corridor much like the familiar halls of hotels. His hand quivers around the doorknob.

If he’s going to do this, he’s got to do it quick.

He pushes the door open, just enough for him to squeeze out, and then he’s running. He’s running and running and he can’t breathe because his feet are slicing against the grainy carpet and his head’s all jumbled and his chest’s moving too fast. But he can see a set of stairs, and hopefully a way out.

He stumbles a few times, partly old wounds reopening, blood seeping through the filthy shirt as he gets closer and closer.

And then a pair of arms wrap around his waist and he’s tackled to the floor. The wind’s knocked out of his lungs and he gasps, chest heavy as he’s hauled into a strong grip. He doesn’t have any power, no strength in him left to fight back as his feet drag along the floor. But he still pleads. It’s all he can do.

“Please don’t make me go back in there.”

It’s a feeble attempt of a sentence, and the man above him laughs, the sound swirling in Paul’s stomach like water poured on fire. His cheeks are stained, and his hands are red, but he’s pushed back into the room without a word, the door shutting behind him.

He only has enough time to fall back onto the mattress before the door opens again, a recognised face appearing in his view.

He tries to squirm backwards but he’s pushed to lie flat, fingernails tearing at the thin seams of his wrists, a knee either side of his hips, locking him in place.

“Now now, Paul. You were being so good for us.”

The sickly voice makes him fight even harder against the hold and the weight on his stomach but it’s still not enough.

It’s never enough.

Their faces are so close, and her perfume suffocates him. 

“Now, how can we make you learn your lesson?”

—

He can’t tell what song it is, but he knows it’s one of theirs. The tune thrums on the edge of his mind, unfamiliar warmness penetrating his skin, curling his fingers and softening his jaw like it’s still 1963.

He’s not quite awake yet, no sunlight to hit his eyes and rouse him to consciousness, so he’s not yet realised this is the first song of theirs he’s heard since 1966.

He curls further under the covers, eyelashes fluttering as he looks over at the clock to find its not even three yet. He yawns, moving his hand up to run at his eyes before he starts moving. With it being so early, the cold draft slaps his cheeks, raising goosebumps on his limbs as he reaches for his discarded dressing gown on the chair. It still takes him a minute to get his bearings, and then still he finds himself utterly confused.

The house is eerily quiet, which makes the sound of the music even more disturbing, but he moves quietly with soft steps, bare skin padding against the carpet fibres as he leaves the bedroom.

The melody’s coming from down the stairs, and he takes his time as he goes down, not wanting to make any startling noises on the creaking wood.

He peaks his head around the door to the sitting room, squinting slightly at the dim shadows from the lamp in the corner.

Paul’s sat on the rug, the record player next to him, with his back to the door, a record sleeve pinned in his hand. John frowns and moves forward, stepping on a creaky floorboard purposely to alert Paul. The younger man’s head snaps up, fear softening into content at the sight of John before he turns back to the turntable.

“Didn’t mean to wake ya,” Paul says quietly, eyes trained on the needle.

“Was already awake,” John replies. Though the lie is heavy in his chest, he still moves to sit next to Paul, bumping their knees together.

Paul’s playing Help, an album that emerged from a time of emotions fuelled by marijuana and relationships moved closer together, and a time where John and Paul were still just John and Paul.

“Do you remember when you ran off when we were filming?”

A small huff falls from Paul’s lips, a finger coming up to scratch at his nose.

“Aye, but I weren’t alone. Ritch was with me. And it weren't my bloody fault I was high.”

“Well, who’s fault was it then?” John laughs, knocking Paul’s knee with his hand.

“Weren’t me. You were the one passing the joint around.”

John tuts, a smile denting his cheeks and reddening his face. “Ungrateful sod.”

They fall back into a comfortable silence, the sound of their own voices humming in the background, and soon enough John finds Paul scooting closer.

Their face to face, so close John can feel Paul’s breath on his cheek. Paul’s pupils are blown, the yellowing bruises across his cheek shadowing the red skin under his eyes and smearing fresh tear tracks that must have halted before John came in.

“Kiss me.”

Paul’s voice wavers, but his stare is strong, and John swallows. He doesn’t know where this comes from, but he knows he can’t do it. Paul’s too vulnerable, too fragile, and John can’t take advantage of that. His adam’s apple bobs and he stutters.

“I can’t. I can't do that to you. I can’t be like them.”

“You’re not,” Paul says, a quickfire response John’s not sure he believes.

“I am. I’m taking advantage. I... I don’t want to break us up before we’ve even started. I can’t do that to you.”

“Don’t fucking condescend me, John. I’m not a child,” Paul spits, a flash of something akin to anger lighting his eyes before his eyebrows soften and his eyes widen.

“Please,” he says, softly now, as he leans forward on his hand, his breath warm on John’s face. John closes his eyes, dipping his forehead down to meet Paul’s, inhaling the distinct closeness as he brings a trembling hand to Paul’s cheek.

“I don’t want to feel them when I kiss you. I want to feel you,” Paul breathes, and although the words stir something unpleasant in John’s stomach, he doesn’t shift away.

It only takes another second before Paul moves in, pressing their lips together with a mixture of passion and longing, and it happens so fast that by the time they pull away John can feel that his eyes are wet and his fingers are pressed firmly into the wooden floor. Paul shakes slightly, lip trembling as his eyes flicker widely over John’s face before he leans forward, head coming to rest in the crook of John’s neck, breath hot and stilted against his skin. John slips his arms around his waist, pulling him close, feeling the ridges of his spine and the tenuity of his waist.

\--

**_1960_ **

_“What do ya think we’ll be like when we make it, Johnny?”_

_It’s an odd question, especially when they’re cramped together in a dingy bed in the middle of the night in another country, but John just shrugs as he thinks, Paul’s fingers drawing patterns on his thigh._

_“Well, we better be bloody rich,” he says, earning a light punch in the arm as Paul laughs before they both curl around each other tighter, Paul’s head now tucked against his collarbone._

_“Honestly?” John says, voice earnest now. “I dunno, Macca. Don’t wanna turn into an old stuck up sod though.”_

_“Me neither,” Paul replies, pressing a light kiss to John’s skin._

_John hums, moving his arm to wrap around Paul’s back. It’s the first time they’ve been alone in a long time, the whole trip to Hamburg buggering their plans for any intimacy, but since tonight George and Stu are out trying to pull some birds on the Reeperbahn, they finally have a night where they don’t have to put up the act anymore._

_“Will you still love me?”_

_It’s quiet and pulled from the depths of Paul’s chest, and John finds himself startled at the question._

_“What?”_

_Paul moves now to sit up on his elbows, face mere centimetres from John’s._

_“Will you still love me when we’re famous?”_

_“Of course I bloody will,” John says, and the fact Paul ever doubted him causes his chest to seize and panic to prickle at his skin._

_“Good,” Paul replies, pressing a chaste kiss to John’s lips. “I don’t think I could be without you for long.”_

_That makes John smile and he leans in for another kiss, folding his fingers into the younger man’s hair as it deepens, and he realises he can never be away from this man. The mere idea of there being a time without him causes him to pull away, just to look at Paul again._

_A slight frown tugs at Paul’s eyebrows, but John pulls him into a hug before anything can be said, the sudden craving for closeness outweighing the possibility of him being seen as weak or needy._

_Paul hugs him back just as hard, and John lets his hands dig into Paul’s hips, sighing into the crook of his neck as the younger man kisses behind his ear softly._

_It seems John’s got what he needs. He just hopes it never gets taken away._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading this chapter :)  
> Please please please let me know what you think! Comments and kudos are very much appreciated <3  
> You can find me on Tumblr @lovely-rita-meter-maidd, and you can send in an ask request or let me know what you think.  
> Thank you for reading, stay safe and I love you all <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3


	8. VIII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Paul's out of bed in the middle of the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for another long wait, and I'm sorry that this chapter is on the shorter side. This was quite hard to write, but I hope you still enjoy it :)  
> PLEASE READ THE TAGS!!! I know I always say this, but I can't express enough how important that is, because I don't want anyone to be triggered. This fic will get quite dark so please read with caution, and if you think there is something that can be triggering, stop reading!!!! I care about you all and I don't want someone to be hurt by my writing.  
> Anyways, please enjoy <3

John’s not sure why he’s still awake. He never seems to sleep anymore, the tightness in his chest too overwhelming to relax. He turns over and buries his face in the pillow with a sigh.

He so desperately wants to check on Paul, reassure himself that he’s okay and breathing and _alive_. But he feels like he’s invading, looking at someone he still doesn’t feel like he has the right to look at in the same way he used to.

He can feel himself start to drift off when there’s a _thump_ from somewhere in the house, before the sound of the shower turning on.

Panic fizzles in John’s chest, and he sits up, stepping out of bed quickly before making his way to the bathroom.

“Paul?”

There’s no reply so he jiggles the handle. It’s locked. He’s not surprised.

“Paul, open the door.”

There’s still no reply, the sound of the shower making John’s nerves twitch and he feels like he has no other choice. He can’t leave him, not when he’s not in a good place.

He runs into his bedroom and picks up his desk chair before he runs back and slams it into the door handle. It doesn’t budge and he tries again and again and again until finally, the handle brakes.

He sets the chair aside, panic clawing at the back of his throat, and he pushes the door open slowly.

His eyes land on the figure in the tub, curled up under the water with his head buried in his knees. But he doesn’t seem to be in danger, and that at least calms John enough for him to walk in.

It’s the first time he’s seen him not dressed, his skin completely littered with scars, bruises so deep they still look like they hurt, marks still fresh enough they’ve not healed all the way. John’s breath stifles, and he has to look away, the sight too upsetting, something he wishes he could unsee. It’s fresh evidence that Paul’s not completely whole, still battered and bruised and hurt and in pain.

He doesn’t say anything, but he moves to sit on the edge of the bath, lightly setting his hand on Paul’s back, fingers pressing on the patches of unmarked skin in fear he’ll hurt him.

“Don’t touch me.”

Paul’s voice is rough. John complies, hands scolded. He pulls them away from Paul’s wet skin and digs his toes into the floor. Paul trembles, head buried in his arms, bandages soaked red and hair dripping. John turns the tap off without saying a word, and though Paul’s body jolts slightly at the lack of water, he doesn’t move, nor does he make a sound. John’s heart's in his chest and he moves to the other end of the bath, climbing in quietly, glad that there is enough room that he’s not too close, but their knees skim against each other. He’s afraid that’s too much.

His trousers are drenched and his arse is numb but he reaches forward slowly, hands coming to rest on Paul’s arms, touch unlike before but instead resembles familiarity long missed. John waits.

Paul looks up eventually, eyes red and swollen, cheeks flushed and lips cracked, and his eyes flicker with insecurity. Or maybe it’s fear. John doesn’t think he’s ever felt further apart.

“Come ‘ere,” he says, whispers it like an unspoken agreement between them, and Paul complies, the same as he would years ago when he still had that goofy smile and that baby face John finds himself still longing for, crawling over to the older man where he slots himself between his legs, body curled up with his head buried against John’s chest.

Paul’s breath stutters. John’s shirt soaks, and he’s not sure if it’s from Paul’s wet skin or if he’s crying. John doesn’t think he has the right to cry too. Not when Paul’s so small and fragile and so so delicate that John’s scared one wrong move will crack him, eventually splitting him into a thousand pieces John will never be able to pick up without his hands shredding. He slides his hands through the damp, dark hair, words hushed and gentle, curling his fingers maybe a bit too tight. Maybe not tight enough.

Paul’s shivering. His damp skin is going cold, chilling after the warmth of the shower. John shifts and Paul whimpers, grabbing his shirt with pleading hands.

“Stay,” he whispers, lips rough against John’s chest. His voice is low, only familiar to those times they’d hide in each other’s beds when they’d been threatened down the back alley of the Kiserkellar or the painful clutch of hands when the plane’s unsteady all the way back in ‘64. John wishes they’d never landed. And then he wishes they’d never got on the plane in the first place because then they wouldn't be _here_.

John hums, scraping his hands lightly over taught skin until he reaches rough stubble and fresh tears. He thumbs at Paul’s jaw, and the younger man twists slightly. John’s hand drops to Paul’s back instead. He knows this is all wrong.

Paul looks up, meets John’s eyes, and John doesn’t have to say anything. Paul reads him like a book, brow softening and grip loosening, and he drops his head back down to John’s chest.

Paul doesn’t say anything more, but let's go when John gets out before holding his hands out so John can help him step out. Paul’s hands are soft and unsteady and John’s heart stumbles. He lets go, doesn’t want to hold on for too long in fear he’ll never let go, and instead fumbles for the towel that scratches his skin, wrapping it tightly around Paul’s shoulders. Paul doesn’t meet his eyes.

“I’ll be back in a minute, okay?”

Paul nods, let's his chin drop to his chest. John pushes him down gently by the shoulders to sit on the toilet lid before he leaves the room, steps faltered and sloppy, his mind not quite right but not entirely wrong.

He settles on a pair of his own pyjamas, the ones sat at the back of the draw marred with joy and youthfulness from the times Paul used to wear it. John fears it’ll be too big on him now.

He finds Paul exactly where he left him, and Paul flinches ever so slightly when John meets his eyes.

John helps him change in silence, brushing his fingers over raised scars and yellowing bruises, trying not to think about the slices and the punches his lover must have endured. No, he can't make this about himself. He can’t make this about him like he always does when Paul needs him now more than ever.

As he thought, the clothes swamp the younger man, the collar lagging by his chest and the waistband drooping at his hips. It’s almost too hard to look at, that Paul is not only the young man he used to be, but he’s also twisted into a fragile being, and John is still wary that with the wrong touch he’ll send Paul backwards. He’ll either ignite the fierce side of Paul, get a passive-aggressive answer with words spat like a smack to the face, or he’ll be left with a triggered Paul, eyes lost and dark and words hurtful and wrong.

No, John has to be careful.

He gathers bandages from the bathroom cupboard, settling them on the side as he kneels in front of Paul. Paul holds his arm out ready, and John makes a pained noise. He unwraps the bloodied cloth from around Paul's arms, met with the sight of large jagged cuts from the centre of his wrist to the crevice of his elbow. He tries not to look too much, but he knows the image is already stamped into his memory. Paul is completely silent as he patches him up, doesn't even wince, and that pains John's heart more than anything. 

John leads them both back to Paul’s bedroom, Paul’s hand skimming his back, desperate for comfort until they reach his bed.

Paul gets in quietly, pulls the covers up to his chin and turns over, wet hair matting against the pillow. John sighs, lets the cold chill make him shiver as he stares at the bassist.

He doesn’t want to leave.

But he does, because what else can he do? But then there’s a sharp pain to his wrist and he’s lurched backwards. He turns, anger raging until he realises it was just Paul. Just Paul who’s still got his back to him. Just Paul who’s hand is so tight around John’s wrist he’s white-knuckling.

“Stay.”

It’s low and quiet and for a moment John thinks he must have misunderstood. But when eventually Paul turns his head so that he can see his eyes, the older man knows what he means.

He climbs in, relishing in both the warmth and the closeness, and wraps himself around Paul, hands soft around his waist, and presses a kiss to his neck.

Paul hums, his shoulders starting to finally relax, and John finds himself falling asleep comfortably for the first time in years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading this chapter :)  
> Please please please let me know what you think! Comments and kudos are very much appreciated <3  
> You can find me on Tumblr @lovely-rita-meter-maidd, and you can send in an ask request or let me know what you think.  
> Thank you for reading, stay safe and I love you all <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3


	9. VIIII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things aren’t looking too good. Or maybe they are. John can’t quite make his mind up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long time no see huh  
> Sort about the radio silence. Life’s shit. But here’s another chapter for those of you waiting for it.   
> PLEASE READ THE TAGS!!! I know I said this last time, but I can't express enough how important that is, because I don't want anyone to be triggered. This fic will get quite dark so please read with caution, and if you think there is something that can be triggering, stop reading!!!! I care about you all and I don't want someone to be hurt by my writing.  
> Anyways, please enjoy <3

When John wakes up, he’s alone.   
  
It takes him a minute to register where he is, but he’s quick to catch on to the lack of body heat next to him. He sits up, head spinning, as his eyes hazily search for another, landing on a figure sat on the windowsill.

It must be early, too early in fact, when it’s still half dark and there’s an amber glow flicking shadows into the room like a deadly dance. Paul’s face is shadowed, but the window’s opened half a crack and there’s smoke in the air so John guesses there must be a ciggy in his hand.   
He lifts the sheets up slowly, climbs out of bed without a sound, and Paul only notices him when he jumps up on the windowsill next to him. Paul looks over at him, blinks once, then turns back to the window. 

“Can I have one?” 

  
Paul’s already got one out ready, and he lights it before handing it over, which John takes gratefully. 

  
Quite a while passes before Paul finally speaks up, tucks his legs closer to his body as he leans his head against the wall. 

  
“What ‘appened to Jane?”

  
John moves to sit opposite, brushes their legs together almost apologetically. 

  
“Fucked off, didn’t she,” he says, takes a drag of his cigarette as he gouges Paul’s response. Paul’s mask is glued on tightly, and his face doesn’t even crack. 

  
“You don’t need her, love,” he says, softer now, glides his foot gently up and down Paul’s shin. 

  
“Didn’t love her anyway,” Paul grunts, sucks at his cigarette as he looks out the window. John drops his foot and sighs, scans his eyes over the younger man in front of him. 

  
“You can talk to me y’know. I won’t judge an’ I won’t tell anyone.” 

  
Paul flicks his ciggy out the window and rubs his hands over his face. He doesn’t look at John, and John’s almost glad he doesn’t. 

  
“S’just... you don’t know what they did to me Johnny. Every day.”

  
John gulps, burns his finger when he holds the cigarette too tight. 

  
It’s obvious Paul’s upset from the way his eyes shine and his arms fold in against himself, but he lights up another and continues like a regular chain smoker. 

  
John doesn’t know what to say, so he says nothing at all. 

  
He watches Paul in silence, and his chest starts to pull taut against his lungs. 

  
“I don’t want to be here anymore.”

  
It’s said softly, like a lonely whisper on a star chase, and John almost wishes he never heard it.   
He sits forward, places his hand on Paul’s knee, gaining the younger man’s attention. 

  
“Please come back to bed.”

  
Paul’s eyes widen slightly with fragility, and John’s almost scared that if he pushes too hard he’ll break. 

  
“Please.”

  
He doesn’t plead, not in a million years, unless it’s for Paul. Unless it’s to keep Paul safe. 

  
Paul doesn’t move. The sun is starting to come up now and it’s shining on his face in a way that highlights his freckles. John takes the cigarette from him and stubs it out before taking his hand. Paul holds it, and John can almost feel his heart in his throat as he finally pulls Paul off the windowsill, and gently leads him back to bed. 

  
They get in without a word, and John tucks himself around the taller man, hugs him close to his body with a hand holding over his chest keeping him secure. 

  
Paul sniffs, and John knows he’s crying. He kisses his jaw softly, and spends the rest of the night combing his fingers through Paul’s hair until they both fall asleep.   
  


—————————  
Paul gets his stitches out. 

  
It’s painful to watch, but Paul grits his teeth and it’s over before they even know it. His arms are scarred with twisted and deep lines, but neither of them say a word when he’s quick to pull his sleeves back down. 

  
The ride home is quiet, and John can’t help but reflect on Paul’s words from the night before.   
It’s no surprise that when they get in that Paul heads straight for his bedroom, promptly shutting John out. 

  
John leaves him, knows the pain’s too fresh to poke at, so he does the only thing he can think of. He can’t handle this alone. 

  
George pulls up not twenty minutes later, John’s phone call being frantic but quiet, and he pushes into the house with a solemn looking Ringo in tow. 

  
“S’he alright?”

  
John doesn’t answer, shoves his hands into his pockets and moves away to make them a drink. There’s a small ‘christ’ and John can tell that George knows how deep in shit they are.   
He makes the tea, scolds his hands on the cups, and passes them over, grateful for finally having some sort of company that doesn’t mean just Paul. He’s missed the normality of things, misses how things used to be. 

  
“Is there anythin’ we can do?” Ringo asks, eyes blue and lips tied. 

  
“Stay.”

  
George nods, steps forward, and before John knows what’s happening, he’s being pulled into a hug. 

  
It’s nice, they’ve not been this close in a while, and John thinks that maybe finally they’re building back up the bricks of their friendship. 

  
“How’s about we get out a pack of cards and a few drinks. I’m sure Paul will wanna catch up.”  
John grunts, and George pats his back gently. 

  
“It’ll be okay, John,” Ringo pipes up. 

  
“What do you know?” John snaps, tastes the bitterness on his tongue. 

  
He already knows he’s in the wrong for being so uptight, so he sends Ringo a apologetic glance. 

  
“Cmon then,” George says, and John allows himself to be lead into a situation that could be the death of them all. 

—————————  
He finds himself trembling and he’s breathing softly, no quickly, and his head is jumbled into pieces that he’s trying to put back together with sliced hands that scrape against the cardboard and split at the curved edges and all of a sudden he’s heaving and his head feels heavy. But he sits there with his feet apart and his chest low and the cards in his hands and no one suspects a thing because why should they when he’s not the victim and he never has been. He’s never been hit and bruised and taunt and derived of anything known to a normal life. He’s never been alone, not really, not when he thinks about it. Even when he was, he still had a phone to ring up Brian and George and Ringo, hell, even Cyn. He still had the warmth of the fire and a meal in his belly and a smoke in his hand and a bottle of his choice in the other. 

  
He sighs, chest crackling, and he’s surprised when George looks up from across the table. A frown lingers on the younger man’s face, cheeks taut and eyes seeking, before he folds his cards with a breath. 

  
“You alright, John?”

  
He guesses he wasn’t as good at hiding it as he thought. And the problem isn’t that Ringo and George have figured it out, it’s that Paul, Paul who usually is able to spot John’s moods when the act’s still spread thick, finally looks up, the last out of all of them. 

  
His eyes are foggy and his pupils are blown but he looks at John with worry, like John’s the one he should be frightened for. 

  
Something twists in John’s gut and he pressed a fist to his chest, presses it into his sternum harder when he feels Paul’s hand on his arm. It’s soft and familiar and John does everything he can to focus on the feeling of Paul’s skin against his own. But it’s so hard when the feeling of helplessness is overwhelming, and there’s so little space for him to actually think. 

  
So, without thinking, he pulls Paul forward, wraps his arms around his waist, just loose enough for Paul to breath. Paul’s movements are surprised for a moment before he finally pushes his fingers through auburn hair, and John digs his face against the younger man’s stomach.   
He hears the rattle of chairs and knows the others have left them alone, and he can finally hear his own breathing. 

  
And the sound of Paul’s whispered words. 

  
“When I find myself in times of trouble, mother Mary comes to me,” he whispers, gentle and kind and in an unfamiliar melody that swipes across John’s face at such a velocity that he grapples at Paul’s jumper, snuffs his nose against the wool as he listens.   
  
“Speaking words of wisdom, let it be.”

  
There’s no more words but the tune carries on, hummed between thin lips, hands steadily moving through the older man’s hair. 

  
“What’s that?”

  
Paul pauses, moves his hands to cup behind John’s ears. 

  
“What?”

  
“The song,” John replies, leans back to look at his lover. Paul’s eyes are glittering and his cheeks are flushed. 

  
He’s silent for a while, and John can feel him tense slightly so he pulls him down to sit on his lap, legs tucked either side of his hips so that Paul can look at him directly. 

  
“Jus’ something I thought of. Y’know when I was... there n’all.”

  
John doesn’t know what to say, so he doesn’t say anything at all. He doesn’t want to push Paul, or god forbid trigger him, so he stays quiet, stroking his back gently. 

  
“I had a dream, or at least I think it was, I can’t tell it’s all muddled. But my mum was there.”

  
John stills slightly, finds himself gasping for air and he’s drowning slowly. Paul leans forward, swamps him, presses his lips to his neck, breath hot and wet. 

  
“She was beautiful, Johnny. And she told me to let it be.”

  
John doesn’t know what that refers to, but he pulls Paul in closer, feels Paul’s grip start to tighten.

  
“I knew you’d be here. I knew you’d still want me.” 

  
Paul rocks, hips smacking, and John hiccups. 

  
“You still love me, don’t you?”

  
It’s whispered against the shell of his ear, more of a statement than a question, and John nods dumbly, pushes upwards, breath stuttering. He doesn’t know what’s happening, or what could happen, so he lets Paul lead. 

  
Paul rolls his hips, dips his head forward to rest against John’s collar bone. They rock together, gasps and stutters interlacing soft moans and hitching of breath. Lips meet, sloppy and unorganised, but it’s soft and Paul’s lips are pliant against his own. He forgets where he is, what year it is, and he lets his guard down, feels his body go supple like an undefended barricade, and his hands grope and smooth, tangle in hair and pull softly. It’s like everything hasn’t happened at all, like they’re back in ‘62 in a grotty cupboard at the back of the Cavern, just the two of them.   
Paul cries out, his hands smudged in auburn hair, and his whole body shudders against John’s sending John over the edge. His whole body pulses and his mouth hangs open and his eyes roll back in a kind of pleasure he’s not felt in years. 

  
When he gets down to earth, he notices Paul’s breath, loud and slow, careless and maybe even relaxed. His head is tucked neatly into the crook of John’s neck, hands still wrapped tightly against his middle. John turns slightly to kiss his head, brings a hand up to chase away the wispy hairs floating away of their own free will. He smooths it down, presses another kiss to Paul’s head, and when Paul still doesn’t react, panic starts to fizzle in his chest, strangling him and causing him to tense. 

  
He clears his throat, looks away. 

  
“You okay?”

  
There a beat of silence before Paul finally pulls away to look at him, and instead of their being a look of disgust, his face is lined with a smile described only as sweet. 

  
“Thank you, Johnny,” he says, moving forward to press their lips together, wiping the worry off of John’s face. 

  
His chest hurts. But he thinks he’s happy.   
  


———-  
They continue the game, though George and Ringo have become somewhat more wary of the guitarist, throwing concerned glances his way every time he goes quiet. 

  
Everything goes fine, they laugh over a few rubbish cards and sip at their cold teas, until the alcohol is finally cracked open. 

  
It’s just a beer each, nothing too fancy, and they continue on like they’re at the back of Shea stadium, and then Paul takes a sip. 

  
John only knows somethings wrong because his breathing has switched tempo. It’s so subtle the other two carry on like nothing’s happening, and it’s only when John reaches out for Paul’s hand that it all comes to a head. 

  
John doesn’t even get to Paul’s fingers before the bassist slams his palm down, bottle in hand which consequently smashes under the force, splintering into his skin in a bloody pattern.   
Nothing happens for a moment, the rest of them in shock. 

Paul sniffles. The table cloth’s dyeing red. 

  
“I’m sorry,” he chokes, quiet and almost unheard, and he’s out the room before anyone can reply. 

  
John clears his throat, eyes resting on the red splattered glass. 

  
“I think we’ll leave,” George says softly, standing from his chair while Ringo goes to grab a brush.

The youngest moves to lay a hand on John’s shoulder, and John blinks. 

  
“We’ll sort this out. Go an’ make sure he’s okay and we’ll come back tomorrow.”

  
George gives a gentle smile, one so George like that John finds himself nodding in compliance.   
He moves on autopilot, stepping over the shards to move to the bedroom.

There’s a scarlett handprint on the door handle. 

  
He opens it gently, finds Paul in bed. He’s not under the covers and there’s blood dripping on the floor. 

  
“Paul,” John says, though the other man doesn’t stir. He grabs a few bandages from the bedside draw and sits on the edge of the bed. Paul’s eyes watch him, wet and glazed over. 

  
“Come ‘ere.”

  
Paul lifts his hand out shakily, and John wraps his fingers around his wrist, almost a silhouette of the slim bones.

  
He wipes away the blood with a piece of tissue, and pulls out as many pieces of glass as he can. Paul flinches every time, and every time John apologises. 

  
Eventually he wraps his hand, all the way down to his wrist. The blood is already starting to soak through.   
  
“I’ll look at it properly tomorrow,” he says, moves a strand of hair out of Paul’s face. The younger man’s eyes follow him, but he makes no movement to show he’s understood.   
  
A tear leaks down his cheek, and John thumbs it away gently. 

  
“It’ll be okay, Macca.” 

  
He climbs in behind him, grateful when Paul allows him to pull the covers over them. He’s surprised that Paul turns over though, and he buries his face against John’s chest. 

  
John’s shirt turns wet but he doesn’t find that he cares.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading this chapter :)  
> Please please please let me know what you think! Comments and kudos are very much appreciated <3  
> You can find me on Tumblr @lovely-rita-meter-maidd, and you can send in an ask request or let me know what you think.  
> Thank you for reading, stay safe and I love you all <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading this chapter, and I hope you'll stick around to read the next one :)  
> Please please please let me know what you think! Comments and kudos are very much appreciated <3  
> You can find me on Tumblr @lovely-rita-meter-maidd, and you can send in an ask request or let me know what you think.  
> Thank you for reading, stay safe and I love you all <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3


End file.
